


Let It Be

by juliusschmidt



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Sex, Biting, Dirty Talk, Domestic, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marking, Religious Conflict, Secret Relationship, Sexual Repression, Shame, Unsafe Sex, assualt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 60,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s one person who knows more about Pat than Brisson, one person who’s closer to discovering Pat’s secrets than his mom, one person who always, always, calls bullshit on him: Jonathan Fucking Toews. </p><p>And following the launch of the Sun-Times article, which runs with the unfortunate headline “Patrick Kane Admits He’s Not God,” Jonny does not disappoint.</p><p>An epic get-together fic spanning 2010-2013, with a mostly happy ending and, seriously guys, strong religious themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Be

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for the Hockey Big Bang and I'm ages late in finishing and posting it. Thank you to my fantastic artist, Ibrahil. All her graphics are in one place, here. (To be added soon!) 
> 
> **At it's core, this story is about Pat struggling with being gay and being Christian.** His (hopefully very sympathetic) lover, that’s Jonny, obviously, is agnostic and, on occasion, outright hostile toward religion in general and Pat’s religiosity in particular. If you're curious about how I understand myself to have portrayed Christianity in this fic, please see the end notes (which are sort of spoilery, but also explicit about the direction of Pat's faith journey, as well as about my own relationship to Christianity). 
> 
> Also, in case it isn't obvious, I have no idea what any of these folks really, actually believe or have experienced in terms of religious or spiritual life.
> 
> On the 'Assault' tag: at one point, Pat acts out violently toward a relative stranger (not on the ice), but is quickly stopped by friends.

 

 

 

 

_The priest just kinda laughed, the deacon caught a draft_  
 _She crashed into the Easter Mass with her hair done up in broken glass_  
 _She was limping left on broken heels_  
 _When she said, "Father, can I tell your congregation how a resurrection really feels?"_

_-_ From "How a Resurrection Really Feels" by the Hold Steady ([x](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PFiiq2sFD7E))

 

Pat hates his Catechism classes. They’re really boring, even more boring than regular school because none of Pat’s friends attend. And the classes are at the same time as hockey, so he has to miss practice once a week for a whole season. Coach doesn’t think it’s worth it. Neither does Pat’s dad. Neither does Pat. But Pat’s mom insists that he’s only nine and he needs to have his First Communion. He’ll have plenty of time to play hockey, later in his life.

His dad harrumphs and mutters, “The early years are critical, Donna.” But he lets it go.

Pat doesn’t. He makes sure to whine about the tragic unfairness every Wednesday, hoping his mom will let him miss and go to practice instead, _just once, just this week_.

One Wednesday evening, in early February, when the snow is piled high, his mom picks him up early. Pat’s happy about it because he was _so bored,_ or, at least, he’s happy until he realizes that his mom has been crying.

Instead of going out to the car, she drags him upstairs to the big room, _the Sanctuary_ , Pat thinks, where Mass is held.

They don’t go to Mass very often, not since Pat started hockey. His games are usually early on Sunday mornings. He thinks it makes his mom sad to miss, but not as sad as his dad is happy watching Pat’s games.

Pat’s pretty awesome at hockey. He’s probably going to go pro (like, be a crazy skilled forward), play in the NHL, and win the Stanley Cup someday. His dad thinks so, at least. “Buzz,” he’ll say, “You can play, son. You can _really_ play.”

His mom drags him to a corner where a table sits, filled with candles, some lit, some not. Above the table stands Mother Mary, dressed in blue, arms outstretched. Pat wants to give her a high five. Actually, it would be more like a low five. He settles for watching the candles flicker.  After a moment, he reaches out, about to stick his finger in the flame, but his mom grabs his wrist and holds it.

“Your grandma is in the hospital,” she says.

Pat doesn’t know what to make of that.

He twists out of her grip. She lets him go and digs in her purse. She a places a five dollar bill into a little wooden box. Then she lights a candle and murmurs to herself.

“What are you doing?” Pat asks.

“Praying,” she tells him.

“That’s talking to God,” Pat tells her. They’d just learned about it in class. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m asking God to heal your grandma,” she says. “You can light these candles for special, important prayers and other people will pray, too.”

Pat thinks about that. “Like when you blow out the candles on your birthday cake and make a wish?”

Pat’s mom laughs. “Kind of. But this wish goes to God. And he can do anything.”

“I have one,” Pat says and reaches for the lighter.

“Okay,” Pat’s mom agrees and, together, they light a second candle.

Pat closes his eyes and thinks hard about skating around the ice with the crowd roaring and the Stanley Cup over his head. He thinks about his dad hugging him afterward, and his mom, too.  “Okay,” he says.

“What did you pray for, Pat?” His mom asks.

Pat shakes his head. “I can’t tell you. Then it won’t come true.” Like with birthday wishes.

His mom laughs again. She looks a lot happier than she did when she first arrived to pick him up. “It doesn’t matter who you tell. God hears you and he will answer, no matter what.”

~

Pat’s grandma dies the next day. Pat tells his mother that she ruined it, that she shouldn’t have told him her prayer. She should have kept it a secret.

It’s then that Pat decides he’s going to become the best secret keeper ever.

And he does. It’s not hard, mostly because the things Pat wants to keep secret, nobody else seems to want to know, anyway.

 

 

Years later, right after Pat’s scored _the_ goal and lifted _the_ Stanley Cup, a journalist asks him if this is a moment he’s always dreamed about and wished for. It’s a stupid question because the answer is so obviously _yes._ But it makes Pat think about that Wednesday evening after Catechism and the glittering candles in the sanctuary of his Buffalo church. “I’ve been praying for this since I was little,” he answers. 

It’s not quite a throwaway remark, but it could be. It would be for most guys. It would be for Pat, except that Pat’s agent catches wind of it.

When Brisson calls, early in the morning, five days after the Cup victory, he asks: “Is it true?”

Pat’s freezes. He’s been boozing it up, for sure, drunk out of his mind most of the last few days. But he doesn’t think he did anything too stupid. He doesn’t think he blew it.

“What? Maybe?” He’s learned to not even try to lie to Brisson because that man has more sources than God himself. Seriously, Pat wouldn’t be surprised if Brisson knew the content of his private porn collection. (So he’s super careful, downloading only the most boring shit, as long as it has at least a couple minutes of doggie style. He’s allowed himself two videos with extended anal sequences. Those are his favorite, but he’s afraid to save many like that. Because _people_ are _always_ watching him.)

“Do you pray?” Brisson asks.

The question surprises Pat. He doesn’t, not really, but Brisson sounds intrigued by the idea.

“Why?” Pat asks.

“You said you’d been ‘praying’ for the Cup, in a post-game interview,” Brisson reminds him.

“Yeah.” Pat’s been lying on his bed, but he sits up, now. “A lot of guys say shit like that.”

Brisson’s silent. Then he says, “Okay, true. But you’d just been fed the words ‘dream’ and ‘wish.’ And you replied with ‘pray.’ I’m only asking because if you do, pray, that is, I think we should play it up, later this summer. Your press is going to need a boost of positive role model material after all the celebrating you’ve been doing.”

Pat considers this. He grew up going to church, sort of. And, yeah, he believes in God, which is more than he can say for many of the heathens he plays beside. But Pat doesn’t pray, not often anyway. Actually, he spends quite a bit of energy, especially when he’s home, avoiding his mother’s religious sensibilities. Because he’s pretty sure he’s on God’s bad side and he’s also pretty sure that’s not going to change any time soon.

“Don’t you think that would be hypocritical, man? Like, I’m not the picture of a good Christian boy.”

Brisson chuckles. “It’s not hypocritical if you actually pray. And Christians do immoral shit all the time. My sister divorced her husband because she found out he was fucking some lady he met supervising their kids’ mission trip.”

“That’s fucking awful,” Pat says. And, then, because he knows he needs to improve his public image, he adds, “Yeah, I pray, sometimes. My family’s really Catholic. We had a Mary statue in our yard growing up and Mom never leaves the house without a rosary.”

“Great,” Brisson replies. “I’ll see if I can find someone to pick up the story. And, again, congrats, Pat. I’m sure we’ll be in contact again soon, but do _try_ to stay out of trouble.”

~

He flies back to Chicago in late July, just before the Convention, to do the interview with the Sun-Times. Both the Blackhawks beat reporter and a human interest writer, middle-aged and wearing a blue skirt suit, sit in on it. They want his mom to join them, but Pat can’t stomach the thought because, even if he’s completely honest in his answers, actually, especially if he’s completely honest with his answers, Pat worries she might finally, _finally,_ see the nature of the wall standing between him and the Church, between him and God.

At first, the questions are easy, about his childhood, his parents, and the parish he grew up in. He surprises himself by waxing poetic about his family’s religious practices and, more particularly, about his mom’s rich spirituality.

The human interest writer asks if he’s inherited that spirituality. When Pat hesitates, the beat reporter shoots him a wry smile.

“I’ll take that as a no, eh?”

Pat immediately shakes his head. He feels like he is pretty _spiritual_. “No, I think I did get that from her. When I’m home, I go to church with my family. And I pray, sometimes, on my own.  I keep a rosary with my gear.”

The woman smiles warmly at him and nods, “Say more about your prayers.”

He tries to recall the few times he’s prayed since being drafted. “When I’m worried about something. Or, like, sometimes before a big game. I think I prayed before each elimination game during the playoffs. It worked, I guess.” He laughs.

The beat reporter chuckles, too, but his colleague does not. She asks, “Do you think that’s how it works? I’ll bet there were lots of guys from Philly who were praying, too. Why do think God answered you and not them?”

Pat frowns. He’s never thought about it like that before. He shrugs and says, “I don’t know. I’m not God.”

The beat reporter really laughs, loud and from his belly, at that. “Too true. Eloquent as always, Kaner.”

Pat groans.

The woman sighs. She asks, “Do you think when you have a family of your own you’ll take them to church? Raise your kids Catholic?”

It’s leading, like she’s given up hoping he’ll contribute meaningfully to the interview. And he should just nod his assent, but the question throws him and the easy _yes_ catches in his throat before he can get it out. He doesn’t think he’ll ever have a family of his own. _Fuck_.

The woman tilts her head. “Pat?”

Eventually, Pat is able to meet her gaze and smile. “Of course,” he says. And it doesn’t feel quite the same as a lie. He wants it to be true. Maybe he should pray about it.   

 

 

There’s one person who knows more about Pat than Brisson, one person who’s closer to discovering Pat’s _secrets_ than his mom, one person who always, _always_ , calls bullshit on him: Jonathan Fucking Toews.

And, following the launch of the article, which runs with the unfortunate headline “Patrick Kane Admits He’s Not God,” Jonny does not disappoint.

“You are not a devout Catholic. What the fuck is this?”

They’ve been sitting at Pat’s kitchen counter with giant bowls of chicken spaghetti and a couple of beers, catching up midway through the Convention. While Pat’s in the bathroom, Jonny finds his print copy of the story.

Pat doesn’t keepsake much of his press, not anymore. Sure, he’s got some awesome clippings framed and shit, like from the Cup, his hat trick, winning the Calder, and a few particularly fabulous game winning goals, but, for the most part he doesn’t even keep track of what’s out there on him. That’s the job of Hawks PR people and, to a lesser degree, Brisson. It’s just, well, he feels close to this article, protective of it, in a strange way.

“Fuck you, I so am,” he tells Jonny.

Jonny narrows his eyes. “Really? When was the last time you were even inside a church?”

“Two weeks ago. I went to Saturday evening Mass.” And he had, with his mom and Jackie. It’d been cool, sort of. The priest’s homily hadn’t reminded him about how he was destined to burn in hell. And Pat’d even remembered most of the right words and motions at mostly the right times.

“And then you went out to get spectacularly drunk and fuck a random chick in the bathroom of the bar.”

Pat shrugs. It’s true. He’s not sure how Jonny knows because he was two thousand fucking miles away. But it is true.

“Are you spying on me?” He asks.

Jonny laughs. “You’re so fucking predictable that I don’t have to.”

“Yeah?” Pat presses. There’s an edge to Jonny’s voice that’s got him _hoping_.

Jonny holds Pat gaze and his voice deepens as he says, “Yeah. I’ll bet she had dark hair, dark eyes, and a huge ass.”

Pat swallows. He nods, uncomfortable, but he doesn’t look away. They’re playing this game, then, again. It’s Pat’s favorite game, of late. They’ve barely started and he’s already hard, dick straining against his khaki shorts.

“Her ass was spectacular, Jonny,” Pat agrees, though he doesn’t actually remember a thing about the woman he’d slept with. He can’t really go through with it, can’t make himself grab at tits and clits, can’t even stick it in, when he’s not completely trashed. “I loved getting my hands all over it. Squeezing it and smacking it. I fucking love me a great ass.”

Pat wonders if this does something for Jonny, if he’s hard too. He thinks so. He wants to look, but that would be crossing the line. It’s different for Jonny, whose eyes are angled downward, trained on Pat’s crotch, but it’s too much for Pat.

Voice a soft rasp, Jonny replies, “I know you like asses. I’ve seen you staring.” He pauses and his breathing sounds a little labored.

Pat’s pulse skips. He’s so goddamn horny.  And Jonny knows. He must know. He’s egging him on, practically fucking seducing him.

Jonny continues, “You probably took her in the handicap stall, from behind, her front up against the door, your dick, grinding against her ass cheeks.”

Pat closes his eyes and in his head it’s Jonny’s he’s got pressed up against that door. Even when it was random-chick-of-the-night last Saturday, it was Jonathan Fucking Toews in Pat’s head. As often as he can remember, it always is.

“I made her suck me, first. Pushed her down and had her wrap her fat lips around my dick. And it was fucking hot and wet, man. So fucking good,” Pat says, opening his eyes again. Jonny’s pupils are blown, swallowing up the dark brown of his irises.

Jonny’s closer to him, now, too. How did he get so fucking close? Pat feels Jonny’s breath ghost over his lips when he says, “Yeah? Did she run her tongue up and down you? Did she moan around you?” Jonny punctuates the question with a hum, which is not quite a question mark and not quite his own moan. Then he continues, “Cause that’s the fucking best, feeling the vibration on your dick, in your balls.”

Pat shifts in his seat. He needs to fucking—

Jonny moves away, grabbing up the newspaper clipping and tossing it into the trash. “Don’t be poser, Kaner,” he says, as he makes his way into the living room and flips on the TV.

Pat retreats to the bathroom, leans back against the door, and pulls out his dick, jerking off, quick and rough, before he can start to feel guilty about it. He bites his forearm hard enough to leave a mark, as he comes. He’s gonna have to see the bruise and remember this tomorrow. He hopes it will discourage further indiscretions, but he suspects it will only make him horny all over again.

Before joining Jonny in the living room, he digs the newsprint out of the kitchen trash and tucks it away in the file with his private keepsakes. The filefolder contains only four other items: a letter his father wrote him about how proud he would be, no matter what happened, right before the draft; a children’s prayerbook inscribed ‘ _Patty, I love you and so does Jesus –Mom_ ’; a mixtape compiled for him by his sisters when he first left home, of mostly Eminem (Detroit) and Jay Z (New York) songs; and a photo of him and Jonny, taken sometime during the spring of 2009, hugging each other and laughing. Pat’s not sure why he wants a newspaper clipping of this short, fluffy piece about his Catholic childhood with his other treasures, but he _feels_ like it belongs.

Pat finds Jonny sitting on the couch, idly flipping through channels on the TV Guide. “I’m right here, Pat,” he says, quietly. “We don’t have to- we could actually do this.”

It’s not the first reference Jonny’s made to their _game_ outside of the game itself, but it’s the most explicit. Thinking about following through, now, after he’s just gotten off imagining Jonny spread out beneath him, sends up a wave of nausea in Pat.

“Let’s watch the Sox,” he says, grabbing the remote from Jonny. 

~

They’re at the bar later that night, with Sharpy and Duncs and Seabs, and their waitress has huge, albeit obviously fake, tits. This sparks a vehement debate as to whether or not they’d want their respective wife or girlfriend to get a boob job.

Kaner’s impressed by the woman’s audacity in advertising her silicone implants so plainly, as well as by the risk she’s clearly willing to take with back problems later in life. His aunt had breast _reduction_ surgery to avoid that shit.

But, as the debate wears on and on and on, he’s forced to admit that he could care less about her (or anyone’s) breast shape or perkiness or consistency. Boobs are boring, not really his thing, and, actually, the thought of babies sucking milk out of them totally grosses him out.

She does have a tight ass, though.

“Yeah, yeah. We all know that’s all you see on a woman,” Sharpy tells him and Pat realizes he must have been thinking aloud again. That kind of drunk bullshit is going to be the end of him one day, he knows.

Before he has a chance to reply, Sharpy and Duncs resume their tit-talking battle with Seabs. Pat has no idea who’s on which side and he doesn’t really have a chance to figure it out because Jonny says, low and close to his ear, “You could probably take her home and bang her, if you wanted.”

Pat watches Jonny closely as he takes a sip of his beer. Jonny’s voice has that edge to it again, the edge that always gets Pat stiff and wanting, but he hasn’t said anything revealing, not yet, anyway.

Pat shrugs. “Maybe.”

Jonny doesn’t look at him, just wipes a finger through the condensation on the outside of his pint. He says, “She’d probably let you in the back door, if you wanted. She looks the type.”

Fuck. Pat adjusts himself under the table. “What the hell, Jonny?” He grits out. Jonny’s speaking quietly enough that it’s clear his words are meant only for Pat, but not so softly that the others wouldn’t hear if they were paying attention.

Jonny sets down his beer and rests his hand beside Pat’s on the table. It probably looks casual, to an observer, even one as _close_ as Sharpy or Seabs, but Pat’s keenly away that their pinkies are touching.

“Have you ever done that before?” Jonny asks, angling his body toward Pat’s. “Have you ever put your dick in someone’s ass? Because if you haven’t, you are missing out. It’s tight, tighter than any cunt you’ve ever been in.”

Pat’s breath is gone and his heart is pounding. He can feel its pulses, fast and unsteady, in his chest, in his throat, in his dick, in the tip of his little finger pressed against Jonnny’s.

“Jonny.” He knows he sounds desperate. He _feels_ desperate. “I want…” He doesn’t know exactly what he wants, actually, but he knows that Jonny can give it to him.

“Yeah?” Jonny’s face changes from serious to eager in an instant. It’s his eyes, really, that do the changing. They go from dark and lidded to wide and bright. 

And Pat has never been able to say _yes_ to this kind of thing before, partly because he’s never let himself notice whether or not it’s actually on offer. But he’s also never been able to say _no_ to Jonny, not on the ice and never, _ever_ off of it. Sure, he’ll argue, but in the end, Jonny _always_ has his way.So Pat can’t, he can’t _not_ nod and follow Jonny out onto the street, into a taxi and up to his apartment.

The trip is a blur and Pat tries to focus on something, _anything_ , other than Jonny, but Jonny is breathing harsh and loud beside him. And he keeps sending him these looks, from under his eyelashes, little glances just long enough to be promising.

Pat can’t meet the cabbie’s eyes when he goes to pay, even though he thinks his skittishness is more suspicious than anything that’s happening between him and Jonny. They’ve done this hundreds of times, crashed at each other’s places after a night out on the town. But tonight is different: Pat’s not drunk (not _that_ drunk, at least) and he’s not going to be sleeping in Jonny’s guest room. And, somehow, Pat worries, the cab driver will figure it out, like he’ll see the arousal in the intensity of Jonny’s gaze or the naked want in the hard set of Pat’s jaw.

As they step into the elevator, Pat realizes that they haven’t touched since that brush fingers at the bar. And, yet, Pat’s hotter and harder than he’s _ever_ been. Because he’s going to have sex with _fucking_ Jonny. Holy shit.

Jonny reaches around him to press the button for his floor and Pat can feel the heat of his body, even inches away. Their eyes meet and Jonny gives him a small half smile, a smile that has Pat swallowing. They’re gonna do this. They’re really going to fucking do this. Pat can’t think too hard about exactly what _this_ is or else he’ll chicken out.

Maybe he should leave. This is wrong. It’s going to mess _everything_ up, their relationship, their game, Pat’s career, Pat’s life, and, fuck, maybe even his afterlife. His mother will never, _never_ be okay with this. Not that she’ll ever know.

He drums his fingers against the metal railing that lines the inside of the elevator and Jonny reaches out to still him.

Pat looks down to see Jonny’s thick, tan fingers around his wrist and _want_ fully replaces his anxiety. He’s gonna fucking do this. _Fuck._

He takes a deep breath and shoots Jonny his very best shit-eating grin. It’s all forced bravado, none the easily tapped cockiness he feels on the ice or picking up chicks. Jonny shakes his head, an affectionate gesture, one Pat recognizes, and moves closer to Pat.

When they’re both inside the apartment, after they’ve toed off their shoes and seated themselves on the couch, it’s awkward. They’re not talking. Jonny doesn’t even offer him a beer. And Pat thinks he wouldn’t take it, even if Jonny did offer, because his stomach is fluttering out of control, though not in a wholly terrible way. There are a few inches of black leather between their thighs and Pat listens to Jonny’s harsh breathing. When Pat finally looks over, he sees that Jonny is smiling.

Pat eyes linger on his lips, his stubbled jaw, and the curve of his shoulder.

Pat had hoped, had assumed, that Jonny’d be making the first move. That’s how it’s always worked with their game. Jonny pushes and pushes and Pat opens. But Pat guesses things are different tonight for a reason. At the thought, his cock jumps, rubbing against the smooth fabric of his boxers, impatient.

“Fuck, okay, Jonny,” he says, and turns toward him. Should he kiss him? Do dudes kiss? Pat has no fucking idea. He likes the idea of kissing. He’s thought about kissing Jonny, though in his imagination Jonny was always the one leaning toward him, murmuring filthy things, like he does when they play their game. (Though, sometimes, Pat imagines him murmuring sweet fucking embarrassing endearments, too. Just once he wants to hear Jonny call him ‘babe.’)

Their lips are so close, now, and Pat thinks they’re about to kiss, but Jonny doesn’t move. He’s still wearing that tiny smile and that’s encouraging at least. But then Pat takes a steadying breath and he realizes that Jonny smells a little like stale beer, a scent Pat immediately associates with the bad sex of his drunken hertero hook-ups.

And, for a moment, all the anxiety, the whole heavy weight of what he’s about to do, threatens to break through.

Somehow, though, he holds it at bay, toughing his way through the spike of fear, and, then, he moves in.  He presses his lips along Jonny’s jaw, and finds himself surprised and curious about the roughness of Jonny’s stubble against his lips.  He licks a little and the prickle of it feels good along his tongue. Jonny’s head falls back against the couch and he groans out, “Pat.”

He’s clutching at the back of Pat’s shirt and Pat suddenly wants it off. He moves back a bit and grabs at his hem.  
That’s when he sees the window. He freezes.

And then Jonny’s standing, looking where Pat’s looking, and saying, “Let’s go into the bedroom. I’ll close the blinds.” His voice is soft, not rough edged, different than when they play the game. Actually, Jonny looks happy and so, so hopeful. Pat feels himself relax in response. Pat likes happy Jonny and he allows himself to be led through the hall and into the bedroom.

Jonny kisses him, then, on the lips and Pat’s again reminded of bar bathrooms and breasts, but those thoughts quickly disappear as Jonny’s hands roam his body. They run over his shoulder blades, down his spine. They span his ass, giving it a brief squeeze, before moving back up his torso to rest, fisted, in his hair.

Breaking the kiss, Jonny says, “I want you naked.” He pushes Pat onto his back on top of the bed and slides his hands underneath Pat’s shirt.

For his part, Pat is paralyzed. He wants so many things, mostly to touch Jonny and to see his cock. Holy fuck, does he ever want to see that cock. But Jonny’s words and hands and utter closeness are so distracting that Pat can barely think, let alone act.

Jonny lays his body out, fully on top of Pat and Pat thinks desperately _why the fuck are they still wearing clothes when both of them clearly want to be naked_. He reaches for the hem of Jonny’s shirt, finally able to move again, but then Jonny slots a leg between Pat’s thighs and all Pat can think is _we’re both hard._

They rut against each other and the friction, the heat of Jonny pressed all on top of him, it’s the best feeling Pat has ever felt. In Pat’s head the mantra is steady, a constant stream of _Jonny’s cock, Jonny’s cock next to my cock, Jonny’s cock hard, Jonny’s fucking cock_.

Against Pat’s ear Jonny says, “Pat, I want-” And that’s it. His breath accompanying the words sends a shiver down Pat’s spine, a shiver that has him arching up hard and coming in his fucking shorts.

Jonny pulls Pat close through his orgasm. Holding him tight with one arm and stroking his hair with the other. He presses a series of sweet, small kisses onto Pat’s forehead and temples. And Pat can’t take it. He wants him to stop, to get away.

He hasn’t come that quickly before, not ever, or at least not since middle school when he used to clip underwear ads out of his dad’s magazines and newspaper’s to jerk off to. He’s so embarrassed that the whole thing, the game, the sex, taking this fucking huge risk, it all feels like a terrible let down. Pat rolls away from Jonny, curling up on himself.

“Fuck,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

He’s such a fucking shitshow. Can’t even get his clothes off before he blows his load.

“It’s fine, Pat,” Jonny says. “It happens. You haven’t done this before.” He’s so calm. Like they actually hadn’t just risked everything. Like what they’d just done was something normal. Like it wasn’t going to _change things._ And that confuses Pat, confuses him until it pisses him off.

He sits up and turns back toward Jonny who’s got a hand on his dick, which is still tenting his own shorts. He’s not moving, not rubbing himself off, just holding himself, waiting.

For a moment Pat considers kneeling over him, between his legs, and sucking him off. He’s curious about it. Some of the chicks he’s been with seem to really fucking love that shit. He’s pretty sure he’d love it too, given the chance.

“Pat,” Jonny says, and Pat looks him over, gaze landing finally on Jonny’s face. He’s lying back languidly on the soft cotton sheets, no longer smiling. Now, he’s deadly serious.

Pat shifts and feels the dampness of his come-stained shorts. Twin waves of shame wash over him again, one for his lack of stamina and the other, so much worse, because he fucking—

“I can’t do this, Jonny,” Pat says. “It’s wrong and I don’t like it.”

Jonny snorts, but his eyes look sad, confused, and he doesn’t reply.

Pat says, “I’m gonna call a cab and wait in the lobby.”

“Pat, don’t—” Jonny starts to get out of bed. He follows Pat down the hallway and when they reach the door, he grabs Pat’s bicep.

Pat jerks away. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he says.

Jonny pulls back, burned. “Fine,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Pat says. He doesn’t look at Jonny as he leaves.

~

Pat prays that night. He drinks another three shots of whiskey and he lies on the floor of his bedroom and he prays.

Mostly he prays that he didn’t screw everything up, that things can go back to the way they were before between him and Jonny.

But he also prays the other prayer, the one he’s been praying earnestly since middle school, asking God to please, please, please help him be more normal, help him to want the things normal people want and to do the things normal people do.

It’s never worked before and sometimes especially on nights like this, when he’s made himself sick on alcohol and misplaced lust, he does wonder if God exists. Because if God does exist, he most certainly doesn’t hear or help Pat.

 

 

Miraculously, things do get better, a lot better.

The next day, he’s not around Jonny much, not until the crew goes out in the evening for a ‘goodbye and see you soon’ dinner. Pat sits next to Sharpy, who’s retelling stories of his hilarious fan encounters. A girl literally stuck a marriage proposal in his back pocket. And an older woman, probably in her late fifties, Sharpy guessed, during a standard fanpic, whispered in his ear a vivid description of the filthy blowjob she’d like to give him.

Jonny laughs and returns with a (not nearly as funny retelling) of the chick who handed him a whip to sign and told him she’d think about his Captain Serious face when her boyfriend spanked her.

Some people are fucking creepy. They’re athletes, not porn stars, _come on_.

He and Jonny don’t talk to each other, not really, but it doesn’t feel weird. It’s not like Jonny’s avoiding him. It’s more like he’s giving him space. And that’s good. It’s what Pat wants.

~

In the fall, once the season really begins to pick up, Pat realizes that, actually, things between him and Jonny are the best they’ve ever been. He and Jonny move slightly farther away from each other and don’t hang out alone _quite_ as much. But they’re still best friends, usually together on and off the ice, constantly fighting and chirping.

The new space between them is good for Pat. He spends a lot more time with Sharpy and sometimes Abby, too. They like to bro out together over Chicago basketball, the one sport that Jonny refuses to watch unless he’s totally shitfaced. Pat trains harder, too, bulking up a little.

Most surprising of all, Pat finds himself more relaxed around Jonny. Before, tension, a low, tight pull of arousal, always fell thick between them. It’s still there. Fuck Jonny’s broad shoulders and huge ass, anyway. But now Pat knows that for all that he _wants_ Jonny, for all that he finds Jonny to be the most attractive man he has ever spent time with (which, really, fuck Jonny because objectively Pat can realize that he’s _really really_ not the most attractive man Pat knows; he’s not even nearly as attractive as Sharpy), for all that hooking up with Jonny was the most electrifying sexual experience in Pat’s sordid history, even for all that, Pat also now knows that hooking up with Jonny fucking sucks.

It’s not worth the embarrassment, not worth the shame, not worth the anxiety belaying his underlying certainty that by fucking around with Jonny he’s really, really fucking everything else up. 

So he can just be with Jonny, differently. Chirp him, touch him, go on fucking date-like mini golf outings with him, confident, certain that no matter what, this is not about sex, not anymore, not for him.

For his part, Jonny seems fine with that. He starts picking up at bars more often, usually leggy blonds with more muscle than breast. Not that Pat’s paying attention. Seriously, he tries not to, he really does.

~

In late October, he and Jonny go out to breakfast together, early, before their workouts. There’s food at the rink for them and that’s where they usually eat, but Pat likes to _go out_ some mornings, take his time, eat enough that he’ll feel it (and not in a good way) later. It’s such a _luxury_. And, now that he’s a millionare, he likes to _feel_ like he’s a millionare, sometimes. In his mind, that means the occasional luxurious breakfast _out_.

Jonny calls him an old man for liking _breakfast_ , but Patrick figures he only really likes it if he’s been out partying hard the night before and he certainly doesn’t party like an old man, a certain Jimmy Buffet concert excepted. Also, in Pat’s humble opinion, Jonny has the _no_ right to be accusing anyone else of acting like an old man, not as long as he continues to frown like one, dress like one, snore like one, complain about _kids these days_ like one, and drink fucking gin and tonics like one.

Last night, the guys had been out at a bar watching the Wings play Buffalo. It was a pretty boring game, low scoring and an easy win for Detroit. Jonny’d picked up a blonde and ditched the guys before the end of the third and Pat was not going to be outdone.

He’d gone home with a chick, too, except that his chick turned out to be super kinky or, at least, too kinky for Pat, wanting to tie Pat up and spank him or some shit. It’s not that Pat doesn’t want to experiment in the bedroom. But, like, Pat tried to stay away from that kind of thing because chicks sometimes _talked_. And mostly Pat doesn’t mind his fame and the attention it brings. Actually, he fucking loves giving autographs and seeing his face in the paper, but he is uncomfortable (really, secretly, shit-his-pants-terrified, actually) about speculation concerning his sex life circulating on the internet.

So Pat’d put a stop to that dominatrix nonsense right quick and maybe not in the most polite way possible. He might have called her a ‘crazy-ass bitch.’

Upon being booted from her apartment, he realized he was only blocks from Jonny’s. He knew Jonny’d left with someone. But, like, he was tired and Jonny’s guest mattress was literally the same mattress he had on his regular bed. (Not by coincidence, either. Jonny had asked for his help picking it out because Pat slept over so often. And also because he knew Pat had good fucking taste in mattresses.)

Jonny had buzzed him in without question, only to answer the door, stark naked. They joke about it sometimes, but it’s really not just a joke: the fucker has a problem with putting on clothes. Holy fuck.

Pat’s heartrate had skyrocketed as he catalogued the multiple bruises marking Jonny’s mostly pale skin. He tries to be a good, straight, platonic bro and not look, usually, like in the locker room, and, yeah, it’s easier now that he’s for sure decided nothing is going to happen between them.

But in that moment he had found himself unable to take his eyes away from one particular bruise, a small, circular red-purple thing, about the size of quarter, just above Jonny’s left hip. Pat didn’t think that bruise had come from hockey.

“Yes?” Jonny had asked, stretching a little and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Let me in, asshole, I’m staying here tonight,” Pat said.

And he had. In the guest bed, just as planned. Without Jonny.

When he’d woken up, Jonny’s rando was nowhere to be found. They’d both risen early, him and Jonny, to fight over the first cup of coffee from Jonny’s stupid-ass elaborate espresso machine.

Jonny was in a good mood, opening his blinds to let in the warm fall sunlight while he smiled at Pat and chirped him over his failed sexual escapade. Pat _knows_ he should never tell Jonny these things, but he always does, probably because he hopes that Jonny might ask, voice husky, for all the details, starting up _the game_ again.  

Jonny had agreed to go out for breakfast immediately, which was unusual. Pat didn’t want to attribute Jonny’s cheerfulness to his late night lay, but really, it was the only difference in his routine, as far as Pat could tell. 

Now, they sit across the table from one another, Jonny frowning and shaking his head at this _really cool idea_ for a play Pat’s been messing with in his head for a couple of days. They’re both finished with their food and at the bottom of their third cups of coffee.

Pat shoves his plate out of the way and starts moving the creamers around for emphasis. It’s a really good idea, especially against Anaheim’s defense, so Jonny can shut the fuck up and listen. After a minute, Jonny grabs Pat’s wrist and holds it.

“Slow down, Pat,” he says and his thumb slides slowly over Pat’s pulse point.

Pat’s dick _twitches_ and his breath catches and he can’t help but meet Jonny’s eyes. They’re dark, as, after a moment, holding his breath, Jonny drags his thumb once more over that same spot on Pat’s wrist.

Pat thought they were done with this. He thought he was done with this. He _is_ done with it. _Fuck._

He pulls free from Jonny’s grip and says, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

Jonny raises an eyebrow and, to clarify that this is not in any way an invitation (like Pat would ever fuck a dude in a public restroom, what the fuck, Jonny?), he adds, “To take a shit.”

When he gets back to the table after rinsing his face with cold water several times, Jonny is fiddling around on his phone. He says, “That chick from last night did not give me her number.”

Pat replies, “Probably because you’re a shitty lay.” 

And, shit, he did not want the conversation to head back in this direction. What the fuck is his problem this morning?

Jonny’s mouth thins and he says, “Yeah? You think?” He sounds kind of unsure of himself. And Pat finds that he wants to _talk_ to Jonny, to tell him that, yes, he was the shittiest lay of Pat’s life, but that it was Pat’s fault, not his.

Instead, Pat says, “I’m going to a Bulls game with Sharpy later this week. We’ll be courtside. Fuck yeah.”

 

 

Toward the end of November, Duncs approaches Pat. They’re at the bar, not more than a couple of drinks in and, yeah, Duncs doesn’t just come up to Pat, he _approaches_ him.

“Yeah?” Pat asks.

“So,” Duncs says and it’s really awkward, even for Duncs. Pat hasn’t been playing super well lately, hasn’t been doing the offensive work to make a lighter load for his D-men, but the frown on Duncs’ face isn’t mean enough to be hockey related. Anyway, Duncs doesn’t usually have a problem saying that shit straight up. Actually, he’s usually fucking abrasive.

“It’s about me and Kelly. We’re trying to figure out someone to marry us and neither of us really knows anyone to do it. It’s really important to Kelly’s mom that it’s _Catholic._ I know your kind of religious and shit, so I wondered if you knew a guy.”

Pat frowns. He doesn’t. Still he says, “Like a priest?”

Duncs nods. “Sure, yeah, a priest. Someone Catholic who can pronounce us Mr. and Mrs. Duncan Keith, you know?”

“Well,” Pat stalls, trying to remember the name of the parish his mom had checked out last time she visited.

Duncs takes a big gulp of beer. He looks like he’s in a patient mood. “I’m not even doing much, not compared to Kelly and her mom, but planning a wedding is the worst. And no one is agreeing on this officiant shit.”

“I think…” Pat begins again, still having no idea what to say. How’s he gonna have the Sun-Times publish an article about his deep devotion to his Catholic heritage and he doesn’t even know one fucking priest in all of Chicago?

Jonny’s a few seats away, but apparently he’s been listening and shouts over to save Patrick from his impending mortification. “Hey. Duncs.”

Duncs turns to Jonny, and even though Pat knows the two of them are fairly close bros, Ducs is clearly flustered, uncomfortable that they’ve been overheard. He doesn’t share shit like this very often, keeps his private life private.

“Yeah, Jonny?” Duncs asks.

“You’re wasting your breath. Pat doesn’t know shit about religion. He’s never gone to church in Chicago, not once. All the ‘praying’ and crucifixes and rosaries? That’s a show he’s putting on for himself,” Jonny tells Duncs, not even glancing in Pat’s direction.

Pat feels like he’s been punched in the fucking balls, a fucking low blow from his nominal best friend. He is Catholic, goddamnit. And he does pray and wear his cross _meaningfully_ and carry a rosary, no matter what the fuck Jonny thinks or says.

Jonny’s words sting, and they sting badly, probably because Pat feels like a pretty sucky Catholic, most of the time. He can’t imagine the penance he’d be loaded with if he ever managed to drag his ass to confession. And he doesn’t have the answer to Dunc’s question.

“Fuck you, Jonny. You don’t know shit,” Pat says, trying not to lash out, to stay still. He swallows.

Duncs says, “Shoulda fuckin’ known not to ask. Fuckin’ priests.”

Pat shakes his head in apology at Duncs and gets up.

He hasn’t finished his pint, but he needs another drink, something stronger than beer. He saunters up to a couple of fine looking lades sitting at the bar. They smile at him and ask him his name, already a little drunk and apparently not Chicago hockey fans. He buys the three of them a round of shots that taste like chocolate chip cookies. Later, at least ten drinks later, he follows home the one he’s deemed to have the nicer ass.

 

 

In the first week of December, Pat goes clubbing, having decided that he needs to get wasted out-of-his-mind. Jonny comes with him, wearing his darkest version of the Captain Serious mask, presumably to babysit.

Pat’s more than tipsy and nearly half-way to shitfaced when he realizes that, more than anything, he _needs_ to do body shots. He _deserves_ to do body shots, preferably off the hottest bitch in this place. And he tells Jonny so and asks could Jonny please find that lovely young woman for him.

Jonny doesn’t move. Instead he says, “Body shots, eh?”

Pat’s fucking ace at them, as he’s had tons of practice, and he flicks his tongue out and around as evidence.

 Jonny chuckles and takes a small sip of his goddamn gin and tonic. If he doesn’t get on this search soon, Pat’s going to have to do it himself and that will not be pretty.

Jonny leans in close to Pat, their shoulders not quite touching, but he looks straight ahead as he says, “Ever done one out of someone’s ass?”

Pat squints and tries to remember. He’s usually pretty damn near gone when they start to bust out the body shots. Because body shots are usually a precursor to sex and often it’s the kind of sex where he’s expected to suck on tits and maybe even give a girl head, neither of which are really his thing, like, at all.

“Don’t think so,” Pat says, scooting closer so that they are touching. He watches Jonny’s face closely and says, “Have you?”

Jonny smiles and shakes his head, still not looking at Pat. “No,” he says. Pat nods, a little bit disappointed. Ass shots sound kind of hot.

Then Jonny says, “I’ve had someone else do them out of _my_ ass, though.”

Pat closes his eyes and is bombarded by images of Jonny’s naked ass, which he’s seen hundreds of wonderful, terrible times, but not like this, not spread out before him, just asking to be licked and sucked, probably as a precursor to fucking.

“Jonny,” Pat chokes and opens his eyes. Jonny’s looking at him now, mouth set in a frown.

“Yeah, Pat?” he asks.

“I think I want…” Pat begins and then stops. Because, fuck, he doesn’t know what he wants. Or maybe he does, but he doesn’t know if he actually wants it. Or, no, he really fucking wants it, but he probably won’t like that he’s done it tomorrow. So maybe—

“Yeah?” Jonny keeps watching him with that same intense, unhappy stare.

“I want to go back to your place,” Pat finishes because that’s safe enough for now. He can decide in the cab whether or not they’ll _do_ anything.

Jonny nods and leads the way to the cab stand.

During the cab ride, Pat _does_ come to a decision. He’s all in, this once. Just tonight, he’s going for it, but only in order to reaffirm how awful the whole idea- the idea of him and Jonny fucking- really is. He needs that reaffirmed, or, at least, his dick does.

Jonny’s back is pressed up against the window. He’s breathing heavily and watching Pat, smiling a little, but very obviously trying not to.

“I have vodka, the kind you like, too. You could still get your body shots,” Jonny says.

Pat groans and lets his head fall back against the seat, “Fuck, Jonny, I don’t know if I could…”

Jonny nods, and says, “It does take practice.” And then, “But not as much practice as _other things_.”

Pat lets himself imagine, for a moment, what Jonny means by “other things.” Probably fucking. Or maybe fingering. Or rimming. _Oh god._ Pat’s asshole tingles at the thought of Jonny licking into him.

He asks, “How do you know?” And he’s genuinely curious. As far as he can tell, Jonny only ever goes home with women, and, really, he seems to like it a hell of a lot more than Pat does.

Jonny shrugs, waving a hand and saying, “You know, college,” as if that explains everything, which it doesn’t, as far as Pat’s concerned. He’s been to college campuses and he’s never seen any assfucking going on. Granted, parties hosted by the hockey team are probably not the most likely places to find that sort of thing.

And, anyway, Jonny uses ‘college’ as an excuse for anything about his past that Pat doesn’t understand and Pat’s through with believing that shit.

Pat glares at him, trying his best to communicate disbelief.

Jonny sighs. “Okay, okay. There was this guy in juniors. He was gay and, like, borderline open about it. His family knew and all his best friends, too. When he told me, we were drunk and high off a huge win and, also, possibly weed. I can’t really remember. Crazy night. Anyway, we fucked around a little. Well, a lot, actually. Yeah.”

“Who?” Pat asks, and he _has_ to know. Jonny _must_ tell him. Not because he’s jealous, well, maybe a little because he’s jealous, but mostly because he and Jonny were in juniors at the same time and Pat wants to know who had been gay- fuck, was probably still gay- and _open about it._

“Shit, Pat, I can’t tell you. He’s not _really_ out,” Jonny says.

They reach Jonny’s apartment and Jonny pays for the cab. When he thinks about it some more, he’s glad Jonny hasn’t told him the other guy’s name. Jonny’s trustworthy, not about to blow Pat’s cover or anything.

As they step into the elevator, Pat remembers why he’s following Jonny home, what they’re about to do and he feels like he can barely breath.

Jonny’s checking messages on his phone and he seems totally chill, as though the thought that the two of them are going to be fucking, like _fucking_ fucking, in a few short minutes, doesn’t faze him in the slightest.

And maybe it doesn’t. Pat breathes deeply.

He’s single minded, not wanting to lose his nerve, once they’re inside Jonny’s apartment, guiding Jonny to his couch, straddling his lap and kissing him. It’s a good kiss, Pat thinks. Jonny’s pliant beneath Pat, allowing him to set the pace. He opens his lips to Pat’s tongue and then sucks on it a little.

Pat flexes his hands in the material of Jonny’s shirt, where he’s grabbed onto Jonny’s sides. He pulls it over Jonny’s head and sits back to really _look_ at Jonny’s bare chest.

Jonny’s such a fucking tease, walking around half-naked all the goddamn time, and Pat can never look his fill.

And, even now, now that he’s allowed to let his eyes rove over the planes of Jonny’s abs and the breadth of Jonny’s shoulders and the dip of Jonny’s throat, Pat is aware of _all_ the things he wants to do with Jonny and he’s aware of the fact that he’s only got tonight to do them.

He tucks his fingers into the waistband of Jonny’s pants and says, “I’m gonna take these off.”

Jonny nods. He’s not smiling, not like the first time they’d hooked up. No, tonight he looks blank, the kind of blank he uses to hide his anger and his fear. And the thought that Jonny might be afraid reminds Pat that he _is_ afraid and his stomach flips in an awful, unsexy way.

“Pat,” Jonny prompts and cants his hips. And, yeah, Pat’s going to fucking do this. He moves off Jonny, undoing his belt and pulling it off. He rushes to unbutton and unzip Jonny’s pants, to slide them down to his knees, grabbing his boxer briefs along with them.

Jonny’s dick pops free and Pat immediately loves it. It’s pink and long, and better than any dick he’s ever seen in any porno and not just because it’s bobbing in front of him, begging for his, _for Pat’s_ , attention. He wraps his fist around it and pulls.

Jonny groans. “Yeah,” he says.

Pat wants to talk. He’s got so many dirty, filthy, _sex_ things he wants to say to Jonny right now. He wants to tell him how beautiful his dick is, how he’s wanted to see it, to touch it, to jerk it, for so fucking long, how Pat has a whole list, a list that could go on for pages and pages, of sex stuff he wants them to try together. But he’s uncertain how Jonny would respond and talking, he’s afraid, might make this seem all the more real, all the more permanent, all the more likely to happen again.

Pat speeds up. He’s hard, too, in his jeans, and he grinds the palm of his free hand against his own dick. Jonny’s really into it now, grunting a little and thrusting up into Pat’s hand. Pat literally sees Jonny’s balls tuck-up and he knows Jonny’s close.

Pat can’t help himself. He says, “Want to see you come, Jonny. I want to see you come all over my hand. Come on, fuck my fist.”

And Jonny does come, then, breathing heavily and cursing.

After a moment, he rises and pulls Pat up by his clean hand, dragging him into the bathroom. He turns on the water and presses Pat up against the counter to kiss him. He takes Pat’s hand and sticks it in the sink at the same time as he slides his thigh up, hard, against Pat’s cock.

They stay like that for a long minute. Then, Jonny shuts off the water and heads into his bedroom, Pat close behind him.

Pat’s about to climb onto the bed and onto Jonny, who’s already laying back against the pillows, when Jonny says, “Stop, Pat. Pants off first.”

Smiling, because this is really fucking good, actually, Pat shucks his jeans and crawls toward Jonny.

“I’m gonna blow you,” Jonny says and Pat collapses on top of him, his cock spurting a couple droplets of precome.

And Pat’s had blowjobs before. He’s had really fucking good blowjobs before. But not sober and not when he can meet Jonny’s bottomless brown eyes or dig his nails into the skin of Jonny’s muscular shoulders.

Jonny’s hand, gripping the base Pat’s cock, is callused in a way that feels fucking fantastic, almost as fantastic as the tight, wet suction of his mouth. Pat thinks Jonny looks perfect like this, pupils blown, cheeks hollowed out.

He rolls Pat’s balls in his other hand and that really fucking does it for Pat. He loves to have his balls massaged and, of fucking course, Jonny would discover this right away. Pat feels the tight pull that lets him know that he’s about to come and tries to shove Jonny off, but Jonny doesn’t budge, stays on him through the orgasm, sucking and working his fist right through the aftershocks.

He moves away, only to lower his face again and nuzzle Pat’s inner thigh. It’s sweet and Pat sees that he’s left ten finger nail sized scratches on Jonny’s shoulders.

He’s really fucking tired. There’s tons more he needs to do with Jonny, tonight, just to make sure, but he needs to close his eyes for a moment first. And, anyway, it’s not like he’s going to be able to get it up again so soon.

Jonny moves up the bed and lays himself out, pressed alongside Pat. He kisses Pat’s shoulder and Pat says, “Thanks,” before drifting off.

~

Pat wakes up and it’s already morning, sunlight peeking through the blinds.  Jonny’s snoring lightly beside him and the room still smells like sex.

_Sex._

Which is fucked up, Pat thinks. He should not have had _sex_ with Jonny. Again. He wanted it to be bad, expected it to be bad, and it wasn’t. It was really fucking good and Pat has to get out of there.

Luckily, Jonny’s a heavy sleeper and doesn’t wake, not when Pat gets out of bed and throws on his jeans, not when he rearranges the blankets around Jonny’s shoulders and stops himself just short of pressing a kiss to his forehead, and not when he leaves the apartment with a hard pull of the front door, which is always jamming.

In the cab on his way back to his own apartment, Pat texts _had to go sorry bro_ and then _c u at practice._

~

Within a week of his hook-up with Jonny, Pat injures his ankle, badly, so badly they sideline him. He doesn’t wonder about the timing, about how closely the date of the injury lines up with the date of his _indiscretion_ , not yet, anyway.

And things don’t get crazy weird between them, or anything. Like Jonny and Pat stay close, friendly and platonic. They don’t talk about _the sex_. It’s just, after this last time, Pat can’t even pretend to himself that he’s done thinking about it or that he doesn’t want it to happen again.

Still, he keeps quiet, doesn’t _ask for it,_ because he knows he shouldn’t risk fucking up, not this way, at least.

 

 

Erica knows or, at least, Pat thinks Erica knows that he’s not really hot for the ladies because she tries to _talk_ with him about it. Her attempts at conversationhave been an annual thing since she was thirteen and learned that ‘gay’ wasn’t a synonym for ‘stupid.’

She started out pretty confrontational, accusatory, not so much about him being gay, but about him hiding his sexual orientation from her and the rest of the family. Since he’s made it into the NHL, her tone has changed a little. Now she tries to sound really understanding, telling him that she gets thatit’s hard and assuring him that he can talk to her. His strategy has stayed consistent throughout the years: deny, deny, deny.

Still, it’s nice, _really nice,_ to know that she knows and loves him anyway, even if she doesn’t actually get how hard it is and even if he can’tactually talk to her about it.

After the Cup celebrations early in summer, they hadn’t seen much of each other, so Pat is expecting her to approach him over Christmas. He’s only home for the two days beforehand, his flight back to Chicago leaving in wee hours of Christmas morning. So when the family kneels in the pews during Midnight Mass, preparing to receive the Eucharist, and he and Erica still haven’t had a moment alone, Pat thinks he’s home free.

Which is good because after all the stuff with Jonny this fall Pat’s not sure he’d be able to deny convincingly. He might find himself confessing everything at the first concerned tilt of her head.

But, then, while he’s waiting in line, head bowed, thinking about his schedule for the next few days, from behind him, Erica whispers, “Jonny Skyped me a while back asking me to talk to you.”

Pat stiffens and swallows, not turning around. He nods slightly, though, to let her know he’s heard her. They shuffle forward a little.

She says into his ear, “He was pretty worried about your, like, self-worth or something. Thought you might need to know your family is behind you, no matter what.”

She pauses and they move a little farther forward.

“It’s true,” she continues a few moments later. “We are.”

And this approach is totally new. She’s not asking questions anymore. She’s not even allowing for the possibility that she might be wrong about Pat and that’s because fucking Jonny told her. Fuck him. It was none of his fucking business. Pat clenches his fists.

They’re close to the priest now, only three or four people back. He prays to God that she shuts the hell up.

She does, but only after she says, “He’s really, really into you, Pat. Like, I think he loves you.”

Pat’s throat tightens and his eyes feel full and wet. _Holy shit._

The priest nods and smiles kindly at him, probably assuming his almost-tears have been brought on by the utter, miraculous beauty of the birth of their savior Jesus fucking Christ.

Fuck Jonny, really. Pat hopes they burn in hell together.

 

 

The All Star Game is a fucking blast. There’s a lot of media focus on them, a lot of people paying attention to him and Jonny, to all the Hawks, really, but to him and Jonny in particular. And sometimes that’s awful, really risky, but this is his favorite kind of media attention, playful and generous.

They’re eating him up.

And also, he’s getting to hang out with all his _idols_ , and all his _idols_ have nothing but good things to say about _his,_ about _Pat’s,_ play. They want _him_ on their team. They think _he’s_ a good player. And, yeah, he went first in the draft and, yeah, he (and Jonny) took the Hawks to the Cup, but this is why all of that is so great, because he gets to hang out with the best, learn from the best, play with the best. Hockey’s about the people for him and these are the people he’s always wanted to be _his_ people and, now, somehow, they are.

Like, he’s at the bar, sitting next to Cam Ward and looking across the booth at Marc and Eric Staal and they’re all chatting amiably about the shitty lining on the newest make of Bauer skates. Or maybe about how their goalie pads gave Cam a rash. Or maybe about the pros and cons of their newest line of inner layer pieces. So, okay, Pat’s a little distracted with keeping tabs on Jonny who’s standing near the bar chatting up some tiny little redhead with a flat ass. Not that Pat cares or is jealous or anything.

Jonny catches Pat watching and raises his eyebrows.

Things have been pretty cool with them lately. Pat was pretty pissed at Jonny after Christmas, for talking to Erica. But he wasn’t going to confront him about it because that would probably mean talking about shit Pat sure as fuck doesn’t actually want to talk about. And, really, Pat figures, Jonny was probably just trying to be a good bro, trying to, like, take care of Pat’s feelings without actually having to deal with them himself. So Pat had let the whole thing go.

And now they’ve fallen easily back into their long-perfected best bros who’ve definitely never boned routine, playing hockey and video games, drinking and exercising in excess.

Except that they have boned and when Jonny disentangles himself from the redhead and begins to walk toward Pat, Pat knows they are going to bone again. Like, right the fuck now.

And who’s he kidding?  Pat has lube and condoms and hotel room all to himself. He knew this shit was coming.

Jonny slides into the booth beside him so Pat’s caught, pinned hard between Jonny and Cam. It’s weird, too close to be comfortable for anyone, and undeniably awkward.

Yet, no one mentions it. No one suggests that Jonny pull up a chair instead, not even Cam who’s packed in so tightly he will certainly have imprints of wood paneled wall on his arm.

Marc says, “What up, Toews?”

Jonny shrugs and takes a pull of Pat’s beer. He smiles and shifts to look at Pat. Their faces are really close. “A stout. Nice choice. Very masculine,” Jonny says.

“Fuck you,” Pat says. “I drink manly shit all the time.”

“Tequila shots don’t count as manly,” Jonny says. He turns to the Staals. “Pat keeps a case of Bud Light in his fridge. Never trust his taste in beer.” 

And then the fucker takes another chug of Pat’s stout. Pat thinks he’s a pretentious, cocky asshole. The other guys laugh, but not hard enough that it hurts Pat’s feelings.

Eric asks after Jonny’s brother because apparently they’re close pals, Jonny and Eric. And Jonny drops a hand underneath the table and right onto Pat’s dick which begins to stiffen immediately, the traitorous bastard. 

Pat squirms and Jonny tightens his grip, but keeps his hand still. And now Pat is so distracted he can barely keep track of who’s talking, let alone the topic of conversation.

He begins to shred his napkin into little squares, concentrating hard on keeping his breathing even despite the fact that _Jonny’s hand is on his dick._ They are in a public restaurant and _Jonny’s hand is on his dick_. At any moment, Cam could shift and look down and see that _Jonny’s hand is on his dick_.

He leans forward, trying to hide, to make sure no one actually does see, but Jonny must misunderstand the move because his fingers begin to tug at Pat’s zipper.

“Jonny,” Pat hisses. He’s trying to be quiet, but he’s got several (dark) beers in him and so that’s apparently not working for him because suddenly everyone is looking right at him.

“Umm…” He says and Jonny wiggles two of his fingers inside Pat’s pants. “I’m really not feeling so well.”

“What’s wrong, Pat?” Jonny asks, the fucking bastard. “Real beer not siting well with you?

Pat shifts and Jonny’s fingers tighten around him. “No, you dumb fuck, I think it’s that cold back from last week. Like, maybe I have a sinus headache again or some shit. You know how these things get me. I’ve never been good at recovering from immune stuff. I’ll probably call one of the team docs. What time is it in Chicago?” And, fuck, he’s chattering away like a girl. He always does this shit when he’s tired or nervous or drunk or happy or, yeah, he always does this. His media coaching has included a lot of “they don’t need to know everything you’re thinking, Patrick” talks.

“Yeah, okay,” Jonny says, and pulls his hand away, but not before zipping Pat back up. The other guys look kind of concerned. Jonny adds, “I’ll go back with you. I have some Vicks in my hotel room. I know how you love to rub that shit all over your carefully waxed chest.”

Eric chokes on his beer and Cam says, “He’s really got your number, bro. Which is not what I would have predicted.”

Pat shoves at Jonny, who starts to stand. Ovi chooses that moment to stumble over to their table and Pat suddenly doesn’t want to leave. He’s been meaning to bro up to Alex the whole weekend, but hadn’t yet found the right moment. Pat feels like they could have an amazing friendship filled with beautiful dangles and excellent vodka.

Ovi apparently has been thinking the same thing because he greets the whole table saying, “Kane, my friend, you need to move to the Eastern Conference. Some of my boys would really like to take you to the boards more often.”

Pat starts to reply, saying, “As if they could fuckin catch—“

But Jonny cuts him off grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him toward the exit. “Later, Alex, sorry. We’re leaving. Pat’s not feeling well.” 

He winces and tries to pull free, but it’s not like Pat can protest because he’s just been really weird about his “cold” in front of the Staals and Ward.

“Good thing he’s got his mom with him, then,” Ovi says. He sounds so fucking happy about it and Pat’s actually not sure their friendship would be as perfect as he had originally envisioned. Not if the guy gets off on chirping him. Though, Pat does love Sharpy…

Jonny clutches Pat’s shirt tighter, dragging him away toward the door.

When they’re out on the street, Jonny finally lets go of Pat, dropping his grip like he’s been burned. He frowns at his hand, as if it’s misbehaved. It’s a frown Pat’s very familiar with, as it’s often directed at him. He’s learned not to take it too personally. The most frequent recipient of the disappointed frown is Jonny’s stick, so Pat figures it can’t be too serious.

The cab pulls up and as they climb inside Jonny asks, “Are we gonna, um, you know, or are you, like?”

Jonny does not wear the ‘C’ because he’s good at communication, that’s for damn sure. Still, Pat knows exactly what he’s asking.

“We’d sure as hell better be about to ‘you know’ after what you pulled in that booth. What the hell was that anyway? Are you fucking crazy? Anyone could have seen!”

Jonny raises his eyebrows and then glances at the cab driver. He’s Asian and asked where they were headed with a thick accent. Pat assumes his English sucks, but whatever, maybe Jonny has a point. He shuts up for the remainder of the ride, occasionally kicking Jonny in the shin, and waits until they’re in the elevator at the hotel to continue the conversation.

 As the door slides shut, he says, “Seriously, no one can know about this. And I don’t want it to be, like, a ‘thing’ or something.”

“What floor are you on?” Jonny asks because apparently he’s not interested in talking about this.

“Seven, but I’m serious, Jonny,” Pat insists because he needs to know that Jonny knows that he doesn’t want anyone else to know what’s been happening between them.

Jonny presses the button and then looks Pat in the eye and says, “Me too.” He kisses Pat, quick and firm, stepping back when the doors open again and gesturing for Pat to lead the way.

Pat opens the door to his room and begins to take off his jacket.

Jonny says, “One second,” and goes into the bathroom.

The blinds are open and Pat can see the roof of the building next door, as well as into the empty offices of the second building over. Better safe than sorry, Pat figures, so he closes them and, then, reluctantly, also the drapes. He likes waking up to natural light and there’s no way in hell he’s going to remember to open them again, but there’s also no way in hell he’s going to take any risks, not with this.

He takes off his shoes. Jonny’s still in the bathroom. What the fuck is he doing in there?

Pat takes off his socks and then his tie. He unbuttons his shirt, walking over to the bathroom door. “Jonny?”

The shower’s running. He knocks softly and then, when he doesn’t get a response, a little louder.

“Yeah?” Jonny calls.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Pat asks through the door.

“I can’t hear you,” Jonny says. “I’m in the shower.” Well, no shit.

“Can I—” Pat begins to shout. He’s rooming next door to Duncs, though, and he doesn’t want him to get any ideas, so he thinks, fuck it, and opens the door.

“What the fuck, Jonny?” Pat asks, stepping inside.

Jonny sticks his head around the curtain. “I had bar all over me. And girl perfume.”

“Um…” Pat says and he gets it. He really does. He usually likes to take a shower when he comes back from being out at the bar or at the club or at the mall or really anywhere. Actually, he’s worse about germs and other people smells than Jonny, but he thought they were going to fucking fuck or some shit and that seems far more _pressing_ than a shower.

“Come the fuck on, man,” Pat says, and he knows he’s whining a little but, he’s beginning to think that this is not such a good idea. And, like, maybe he should kick Jonny out or maybe they should just watch a movie and not finish whatever it is that Jonny started back at the bar.

Muffled by the curtain and the water, Jonny says, “If you’re so impatient to get your hands on my dick, why don’t you get in here?”

Pat contemplates this. He can see the outline of Jonny’s body through the curtain and the top of his head peeking out above it. Pat’s never had shower sex before. It always looks super hot in the movies. And in porn.  Pat thinks about the droplets of water he’s seen streaking down the side of Jonny’s neck after a shower in the locker room. He swallows. Yeah, okay, he can get on board with shower sex.

He shucks off his pants. Without bothering to unbutton the rest of his shirt, Pat pulls it over his head and tosses it to the floor. He stumbles a little bit as he tugs off one sock and then the other. He looks up and Jonny’s pulled the curtain back a bit to watch him.

“Fuck, yeah, Pat,” Jonny says, shooting him a brief happy smirk.

Pat steps into the tub. Rivulets of water stream down Jonny’s chest and toward his already mostly hard dick. Holy fuck. Pat crowds into Jonny, meaning to get under the showerhead beneath the stream of hot water. Except, it’s really fucking hot, too fucking hot, and he jumps back, trying not to slip.

“Fuck, Jonny, turn that shit down,” he says.

Jonny laughs. “You would be a baby.” And Pat tries to be offended, but Jonny’s turning around to fiddle with the dial and his ass brushes up against Pat’s cock and suddenly Pat can’t think clearly. He ruts against Jonny’s crack, pressing his mouth against the nape of Jonny’s neck.

Jonny moans and moves back against him, “Like that? Like my fat ass against your dick? You want to stick in, don’t you? Feel me all tight around you?”

Not for the first time Pat thinks, _fuck Jonny_ for being so, _so_ good at talking filthy.

Once he’s sort of half wet and Jonny’s turned the water down to a reasonable temperature, Pat realizes that his back is really fucking cold. Trying not to break their kiss, Pat grabs at Jonny’s shoulders and tries to maneuver him so that some of the water hits Pat, too.

But he epically fails. Jonny’s head smacks against the showerhead and he pulls away to rub at it. “Fuck,” he moans at the same time Pat says, “Oh, shit, sorry, man.”

 Jonny laughs, water streaming down his face. Pat laughs, too. This was a dumb idea. They are not in a porno. And it’s cold and crowded and Pat just really wants to get off.

Jonny says, “Let’s um…” suddenly not so eloquent.

“To the bed,” Pat finishes for him and leads the way, not bothering to towel off. He hops into the far bed, the one he had no intention of using and crawls under the covers. Jonny, still soaking wet, much wetter than Pat, follows him.

They kiss, soft, happy kisses that don’t quite express the urgency Pat’s dick feels pressed up against Jonny’s hip bone. He thinks, _oh fuck_ , because his lube and condoms are all the way across the room in the bottom corner of his duffle, tucked inside his spare pair of underwear.

But it doesn’t matter because Jonny licks his palm, tonguing back and forth, back and forth until it’s slick with spit and gleaming, and then wraps it around both their dicks.

Jonny presses their foreheads together and, for the first few strokes, Pat busies himself by placing quick open-mouthed kisses against Jonny’s jaw. But then Jonny speeds up and Pat can’t focus. The feel of Jonny’s dick, hot against his, the tight grip of Jonny’s fist, the burn of Jonny’s stubble, it’s all so, _so_ good, better than Pat could have imagined with only drunken hetero hookups for comparison.

He comes, quickly, always too quickly with Jonny, but Jonny follows only two strokes later and Pat doesn’t feel quite so badly about it.

They’ve just had good sex, hot sex, and, well, Pat’s been half hard since Jonny groped him under that table at the bar, so of course he comes quickly. Not his fault. It might be Jonny’s actually, or maybe Jonny’s fist’s, he thinks, as he closes his eyes and drifts off.

~

When Pat wakes up, he’s covered in sweat, mostly Jonny’s sweat, he thinks. He’s spooning Jonny, his dick half-hard nestled between Jonny’s ass-cheeks. He begins to press kisses along Jonny’s shoulders and against the nape of Jonny’s neck.

Jonny stirs and slowly rolls over to face Pat, tangling the sheets so they pull tight around them. In the predawn light, Jonny’s skin is cast in yellow and he’s wearing this tiny, intimate smile. Pat’s chest tightens, and he can feel his own lips turn up to match Jonny’s.

Jonny reaches a hand up and buries it in Pat’s hair, pulling their faces closer together. Voice rough and soft, Jonny says, “You’re still here.”

Pat nods. Because, yeah, he is. Then he says, “It’s my room, dumb-ass.”

Jonny’s eyes narrow and Pat feels that perhaps he needs to clarify: he moves forward to press their lips together, gently. Their noses bump.

When Pat moves back, Jonny’s smile has changed. It’s broken into a full-on grin with teeth and crinkles around his eyes.

“Yeah?” He asks Pat.

“I think so, yeah,” Pat says. And what he means is, yeah, let’s keep doing this.

Because the sex was good.  Really, really good. By the far the best sex that Pat has ever had. The best sex Pat has ever even dreamed of having. And, like, they didn’t even get to the part with asses, which is something he desperately wants to try. He’s not going to pass it up, not as long as Jonny’s offering, not as long as they’re super careful about keeping it secret and shit. Pat’s done a ton of super stupid shit in his life. What’s one more sin to add to the list?

 

 

Yet, despite Pat’s totally clear and explicit wordless ‘go ahead’ to Jonny on the fuckbuddies front, three weeks later they’ve hung out alone four times and not touched once, sexually, that is.

 

 

It’s private bro date number five, at Pat’s place, and they’ve pulled out his old-ass play station three for a trip down memory lane, a trip that’s lasted entirely too long in Pat’s not at all dick driven opinion. About two and a half hours too long. They’ve each had exactly one beer and Jonny keeps sending him these dark looks. Pat thinks they’re sex looks, but they could also be angry ‘why the hell do you keep kicking my ass at mortal combat’ looks. Jonny’s eyes are all dark and confusing like that.

Jonny’s also been progressively getting more and more naked. First his shoes came off, then his sweatshirt, and then his socks. Pat thinks Jonny must be coming onto him when he takes off his tee-shirt because it is really not that hot in Pat’s apartment. Still, Jonny’s underclothed often enough that Pat can’t tell whether today’s strip show is platonic or not.

But after two hours of their thighs pressed together and their elbows brushing, Pat’s had it. He’s ready to suck Jonny off, whether or not Jonny’s been angling for it.

Pat pauses the game and places a hand high on Jonny’s thigh. “I’m bored of this,” he says.

Jonny sets his controller down and relaxes back into the couch. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

Pat flexes his fingers. “Um,” he says. No, he does not want to get something to eat. Unless by ‘get something to eat,’ Jonny means ‘put my dick in your mouth.’ And Pat guesses it’s almost the same thing, so he moves his hand over until it lands on Jonny’s dick, which is lying, still relatively soft, against Jonny’s other thigh. He thinks, briefly, _shit shit shit._ Maybe he did read the whole situation wrong. Maybe it was only a one-time thing. Or, actually, no, a two-times thing. Or, like, a ‘whenever Jonny felt like it’ thing. Which is good, _great_ , actually, because that makes doing the right thing and backing off that much easier.

Pat starts to pull his hand away, but Jonny holds it there and says, “Fuck, Pat. I’ve been waiting for you to make a move for a month now. Don’t you fucking dare chicken out on me.”

Pat is not a chicken and, even though he’s sort of pissed at Jonny for suggesting that he might be, he’s not backing down now. It is so on.

He shoves Jonny’s hand away, off of his, so that he can unzip Jonny’s pants and show him who’s a fucking chicken. Jonny’s not fully hard, not yet, but Pat leans over to swallow him up anyway and starts sucking.

“Oh shit, fuck, Pat,” Jonny grates out.

And hell, yes, Pat thinks. Except that, a second later, he realizes that Jonny’s not getting any harder and he’s pulling at Pat’s hair.

“Stop, dude. Just stop.”

Pat lifts his head.

Jonny looks like he’s in pain. Maybe he is. Maybe Pat is the shittiest blow job giver ever. He sits all the way up. “What the hell, Jonny?”

“You suck at that,” Jonny says.

And because Jonny can go fuck himself, Pat replies, “You want to get your dick wet or not, asshole?”

Jonny laughs and Pat’s about to be really hurt, like go home and cry hurt, except that then Jonny leans forward and kisses him, soft and sweet and still laughing. At first, Pat sits as still as he can manage and just lets Jonny go at it, but, after a few moments, he can’t help it, he returns the kiss. Because it’s a really nice kiss.

When he finally pulls away, Jonny says, “You need to practice. And to learn _technique_. And then I’m sure you’ll be really fucking good.”

Pat narrows his eyes. It sounds as though Jonny may be fucking with him, trying to create an excuse for Pat to go down on him more frequently.

But _whatever_ , even if he is, that’s cool with Pat. 

“Technique?” he asks.

Jonny picks up Pat’s hand and Pat hopes he’s not going to hold it because they’re not, like, boyfriends. (Except that Pat also kind of hopes that Jonny does hold it because what if they were boyfriends? That might be nice, or some shit.) But then Jonny takes two of Pat’s fingers into his mouth and sucks them. He moves his lips up and down, wraps his tongue around them and moans. The sensation goes straight to Pat’s dick.

“That’s how you suck cock,” Jonny says.

“Um…” Pat replies. He looks at Jonny’s dick, which seems to have begun to take an interest in the proceedings. Blowing Pat gets Jonny hot, apparently. This is an awesome fact to keep locked up safe, for later. Much later, because Jonny said ‘practice’ and Pat and Jonny both take ‘practice’ very seriously.

Grinning, clearly cocky about the fact that he’s made Pat speechless simply by sucking on his fingers, Jonny says, “The number one rule of blow jobs is _no teeth_. Not on me, at least.”

Pat nods because that makes sense. He doesn’t want his dick getting bitten either, but he’s never really thought about how to prevent it.

He leans over to begin again, but Jonny pinches him.

“What the fuck is it now?” Pat asks, he’s trying to sound whiney, but Jonny’s still smiling, like they’re playing a game. Which, maybe they are. And, if that’s the case, Jonny’s definitely winning.

No wonder the fucker is smiling.

“Get on your knees. Don’t want you to fuck up your back bending over like that. And it’s a better angle anyway, for me.” Jonny’s so bossy, but, shit, Pat has no idea what the hell he’s doing, so he decides to let the attitude slide, this time, at least.

He slides onto the floor, takes Jonny’s dick into his mouth, carefully covering his teeth, and sucks.

“Use your hands, Pat,” Jonny says. He still sounds totally in control, but his dick is getting really fucking hard against Pat’s tongue, so whatever. Pat grabs the base of Jonny’s dick to guide it in and, wow, that’s easier. Jonny must have done this more than the one time he’s confessed to. He can’t possibly be this skilled from _one_ drunken hook-up.

Pat tries to mimic what Jonny was doing to his fingers, with the tongue wrapping and the moaning. Pat thinks he’d like to do his own research on this. He’d like to bring Jonny back some cool, kinky tricks he’s never experienced before.

Pat’s concentrating so hard on pleasing Jonny (and he thinks he’s doing a pretty damn good job) that his own dick wilts a bit, but then Jonny sticks his fists in Pat’s hair and groans loudly as he comes down Pat’s throat. Jonny’s face, flushed and panting, has Pat up, fully hard, again.

Jonny tugs weakly at Pat’s curls a couple of times as Pat pulls off and it’s kind of rude, but it’s also kind of hot, so Pat doesn’t complain.

“Up,” Jonny says, bossy even when he’s sated, apparently. Of fucking course.

Dick in hand, Pat crawls up onto the couch. He presses his face into Jonny’s neck, as he jerks himself. Jonny makes a happy, relaxed hum.

Pat admires Jonny’s pecks, his abs, the trail of hair leading down to his crotch. He speeds up his strokes.

Jonny says, “You should come on my stomach.”

And, fuck, Pat does, right away.

They sit there for a minute or two, quiet except for Pat’s heaving breaths. He closes his eyes. Orgasms always make inexplicably sleepy.

Jonny nudges Pat with his shoulder and Pat blinks at him. “Can you, like…?” He gestures at his stomach.

And Pat groans, “I have to do all the fucking work.” But he goes to the bathroom and comes back with warm, wet washcloth.

As Jonny wipes himself up, Pat asks, before he can stop himself, “Is this gonna be a thing we do?”

Jonny smiles a little, but doesn’t look up when he says, “If you want to.”

“Okay,” Pat says, because, despite everything, he really, really wants to.

~

The next Friday, Erica flies in to Chicago to see a couple of weekend games which they’re playing at home.

He decides not to take her out to party with the guys after the game. She assures him that she’s seen him drunk (adding, ‘And so has mom, Pat,’) and wouldn’t be scandalized in the least. He wonders if her hot self is being purposely obtuse, because she should understand that the intentions of his dumb-ass friends are not as innocent and friendly as they seem.

Still, he’s able to convince her to hang out with her own friends for the night and then to come out for breakfast with him the next morning.

She’s got the corner of a bacon pancake hanging off her fork when she says, “I wanted to go out with you last night because I’d like to hang out with Jonny. He’s my friend, too, you know.”

“No, he’s not,” Pat says, just to be contrary. They _are_ friends, of course, but they shouldn’t be.

“Pat, I’m not going to steal him from you,” Erica says, setting her fork down and raising her eyebrows at him.

“That’s not what I—” Pat begins.

“Yes it is, asshole.” Erica cuts him off and shakes her head. “I told you at Christmas. I’m pretty sure he’s in love with you.”

They’re quiet for a couple of minutes because Pat has nothing to say to that. He loves Jonny, too, of course, as a teammate and friend. He’ll even say so on the ice or in the locker room, to Jonny, to anyone who’ll listen. Actually, he fucking loves to tell people about his love for Jonny, can’t stop it from popping up and flowing out all the goddman time. 

But it’s platonic, through and through. Any other kind of love, sexual love or romantic love or whatever Erica thinks she’s talking about, would be stupid and pointless. Patrick’s life does not have room for that type of unnecessary shit. Not that Patrick doesn’t crave a little romance, because he does. But he’s learned from his sisters’ movies and magazines that romance means going on dates and sharing desserts and planning elaborate surprise vacations and buying rings and popping the question and walking down _the_ aisle and buying a house and making babies. Patrick and Jonny can’t do any of that shit, not together, anyway. (Even if he wanted to, which maybe he does kind of want to.)

“Jonny,” Erica shouts, jumping out of her seat and waving her arms. Pat turns and, sure enough, there’s Jonny, walking toward their table, grinning. He hugs Erica, who frowns over his shoulder at Pat, and then he slides into the booth, resting his elbow on the table against Pat’s.

Erica says, “I was just catching Pat up on the family.” She’s a brilliant liar, always has been. Pat admires her for it.

“Mom told me she’s got dad to agree to join choir with her,” she says.

“No shit?” Pat shakes his head and takes a sip of coffee.

“Choir?” Jonny asks.

“Yeah, at church,” Erica says. “But Dad’ll never do it. He hardly ever even goes with her to Mass.”

Pat frowns. He kind of wishes his dad would go with her, to keep her company, at least.

“She’s pretty into that stuff, huh?” Jonny says, stealing a piece of Pat’s toast.

Pat kicks him and says, “Get your own fucking food.”

“She’s over at the church all the time, especially now that we’re all out of the house. I’d think something was going on between her and Father Clarence if I weren’t so sure Father Clarence was gay,” Erica says.

“The fuck he is,” Pat replies. Father Clarence is a priest. He’s celibate. Everybody knows that. He’s married to God or some shit.

“He totally is, Pat. He checked out _your_ ass Christmas Eve,” Erica says.

“But he’s a priest and Mom _likes_ him. And being gay is a sin. Against creation or whatever,” Pat says, but he doesn’t really know because he never wanted to examine the issue too carefully.

Erica kicks him and says, voice soft, “Pat.”

Jonny says, “I think all priests are closet homos.” They both ignore him.

Erica says, “I think you should talk to him, when you go home.”

“You think I should talk to Father Clarence about whether or not he’s gay?” Erica’s insane, Pat decides. He notices that Jonny’s about to eat another slice of his toast. He grabs it out of Jonny’s grasp and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth. Jonny glares at him.

“No, you dipshit, I think you should talk to him about _you_ ,” Erica says.

And why the fuck are they talking about this, anyway? Oh right, Erica was going to update them on the family.

“How’s Jess?” Pat asks, redirecting the conversation back to safer territory. Jonny scooches closer to him, which is nice.

“She’s got a new boyfriend, too,” Erica says, eying Jonny, apparently not willing to the let the topic of Pat’s supposed sexual orientation drop entirely.

Pat ignores her implication and hopes, desperately, that Jonny’s missed it. “How is he? Do I need to mess his shit up, too, like I did with the last one?”

“Ugh, Pat, you’re such an asshole about this. We can take care of our own relationship issues,” Erica replies, not answering his question at all.

“Maybe _you_ can,” he acknowledges.

Next to him, Jonny takes several huge gulps of water, out of Pat’s glass, of fucking course.  
~

Pat likes it best when they fuck around at his place. His apartment’s cleaner and also slightly more awesome. And Pat’s routine is more important to him and to his game, than Jonny’s is. Jonny’s schedule gets fucked with all the time, for captainly duties, and Pat’s continually amazed by how Jonny’s able to just roll with it.

Pat needs things how he needs them and he wants them how he wants them and that’s usually how they are.

And right now what he wants is for Jonny to stick his fingers in Pat’s ass. He’s been thinking about it for a while. Like, the last few times they’ve gotten off together- their sex shit’s been happening a lot lately, like at least twice a week and more often on the road- Jonny has teased him, running his fingers back and forth over and around Pat’s hole. And, fuck, if that hadn’t felt more awesome, _way_ more awesome, than Pat would’ve guessed.

So Pat decided to do a little experimenting with his own fingers. He’s never had the balls to try anything like that before, though he’s thought about it, about being finger-fucked. He’s fantasized about it. Hell, he’s even jerked off to the idea of it. But it’s kind of a lot, crossing a line, maybe. Like, as long as he just wants to stick it in Jonny, he might be able to convince himself he’s straight.

However, he’s forced to admit, as much as he _does_ want to bone Jonny, he absolutely, unequivocally, also wants to get boned. Or, actually, no, no boning necessary. Just fingers, that would be enough, for now.

So, yeah, he knows what he wants.

And Jonny is just not giving it to him. Pat may have to use words, something he’s been avoiding, here, in the bedroom with Jonny, at all costs.

They’re splayed out on Pat’s bed, comforter already pulled back because Pat’s learned his lesson and he’s not cleaning up that shit again, and Jonny’s pressing sloppy, eager kisses along the top of Pats shoulders and rutting against Pat’s hip.

“I want to fuck you up so bad, Kaner,” Jonny says, but it doesn’t sound like a threat. To Pat’s horny-ass mind, it sounds kind of romantic. Then Jonny continues, “I want to spread you wide and take you apart.”

It’s not the first time Jonny’s said something to this effect and, frankly, Pat’s a little impatient for him to make good on all the talking he’s been doing, so he replies, soft and hoarse, “Try. I fucking dare you to try.”

Jonny bites his shoulder, hard, and, fuck, his teeth are sharp.

“Motherfucker,” Pat groans.

“Yeah?” Jonny asks, his fingers at Pat’s fly.

“You couldn’t fuck me up, not in a million years,” Pat lies.

Jonny smirks at him. So, yeah, he knows what Pat’s doing. He knows Pat’s gagging for it, practically begging or as close as his he’ll ever come.

When Jonny wraps his hand around Pat’s dick, his vision blurs. He doesn’t come. His balls don’t even tighten all the way up, not this quickly, not any more. His ‘dicking around with Jonny’ stamina has really improved over the last month or so. And that’s been good, for him, at least. (Two nights ago, after five or six long, wonderful minutes of sucking, Jonny had pulled off him, lips wet and swollen, and bit out, “Fuck you, you asshole. Blow your load already.” Pat was happy to oblige, and happier still to see that Jonny got a spot of come in his eye.)

Pat takes a steadying breath and reaches down to drum his fingers on the sheets, right next to where Jonny’s now nosing at his dick. “You’re boring me,” he says.

Jonny rubs his thumb over Pat’s slit and Pat’s traitorous dick pulses out a wet pearl of pre-come. “The fuck I am,” Jonny says.

Pat really can’t argue and he’s not opposed to another blow job from Jonny, so he lets out a displeased hum and shoves Jonny’s face, lightly, towards the head of his cock.

Jonny sucks him down with a slurping noise that wouldn’t be sexy at all if Pat’s dick wasn’t suddenly surrounded by wet, tight heat, but it is and so, at this moment, Pat fucking loves that noise. Jonny is able to swallow most of Pat at once and while, unsurprisingly, Pat’s not nearly as long as Jonny, the smug bastard, Pat’s not unsatisfactorally endowed or anything.

Pat loves how Jonny toys with his balls, rolling them in his fingers or holding them fast, secure, but not uncomfortably tight. He’s got them in his palm now and he presses up, then slides a finger back, toward Pat’s hole.

“Fuck, Jonny,” Pat says, because this is exactly what he wants. Almost.

Jonny freezes and pulls his finger away. He doesn’t stop sucking, but Pat doesn’t care. He’s pissed.

“Oh my god,” Pat says. “I told you, you couldn’t fuck me up.” 

At that Jonny does pull off him. He doesn’t say anything though. Pat thinks he looks kind of dumb, kneeling naked over Pat’s calves.

Pat shifts to cradle his head in his hands. He wants to look at ease, powerful, like he knows what the fuck _he’s_ doing. He waggles his eyebrows at Jonny in what he hopes is a suggestive manner, though he vaguely remembers Jonny telling him before that he looks dumb whenever he tries to look sexy.

Finally, Jonny says, “I want to stick my fingers in your ass. I want to feel you clench, tight and hot, around me. I want us both to imagine it’s my dick. Do you want that Pat, or not? I think you fucking do, you horny bastard.”

Pat’s cock twitches at Jonny’s words, twice, and Pat thinks that should be answer enough, but apparently Jonny disagrees because he just keeps sitting there, watching Pat’s face, his eyes dark and intent.

“Pat?” he prompts.

“Just fucking do it, Jonny,” Pat says and, okay, now he is actually begging. What the fuck? He thinks to himself, a little sadly, that he is _so_ gay, _so_ much gayer than Jonny. This shit is so not fair.

“Lube,” Jonny says. “I won’t do it without lube.” He’s breathing harder suddenly and Pat looks down to see that his dick is as hard as Pat’s own.

Maybe Jonny _is_ as hot for this as Pat.

Pat reaches over to his nightstand and opens the top drawer. Not looking away from Jonny’s cock, Pat blindly scrambles his fingers through the mess of odds and ends he keeps stored there.

Frustrated, he pulls out a handful of coins, his rosary, his nail clippers, his fucking sleep socks and dumps them all next to his lamp. Jonny reaches over and starts to stroke Pat’s dick again.

Pat groans and his hand, finally, lands on the lube. He gives it to Jonny, who uncaps it and squirts a little onto his fingers. “Might be a little cold,” he says.

It is cold, but then it’s not. Or, at least, he’s not thinking about temperature as much as he’s thinking about pressure and pleasure.

Jonny’s careful, measured and slow in his strokes. Pat appreciates the pace and wonders if maybe Jonny’s been practicing, just like Pat. He probably has been. The fucker never risks sucking at anything.

Eventually (actually, in very little time at all) Jonny finds Pat’s prostate and Pat cries out, surprised and, fucking hell, so turned on. Pat’s not sure how Jonny does it because Pat’s searched for the _special spot_ and he has yet to find it on his own.

When Jonny bends and take the head of Pat’s dick into his mouth, Pat comes immediately and so fucking hard.

It’s the best. Pat definitely, _definitely,_ wants to continue experimenting with sticking shit up his ass.

Then, Jonny lays on top him, their stomachs sticking together where Pat’s come is beginning to dry, and slots his dick between Pat’s legs. He likes to get off this way, sliding between Pat’s thighs and asscheeks. The friction irritates Pat’s sensitive dick, but he’s too blissed out to say anything about it to Jonny. And, also, every so often Jonny brushes against Pat’s hole and they’re so damn close to actually _doing it_. Like dick in ass, doing it. Except that’s a line Pat’s not about to cross, not yet, maybe not ever.

Jonny thrusts his hips, quick, small motions, for maybe a minute before he’s shaking and collapsing onto Pat who suddenly has more than a little difficulty breathing.

Later, when Jonny’s on his back and Pat’s curled around him (no, not cuddling, just laying very, very close), Jonny picks up Pat’s rosary and holds it up as high as he can. The cross dangles above his lips. “Seriously, Pat? In your nightstand?”

“Where else should I keep it, you fucker?” Pat asks.

“In the garbage, maybe. Do you even know how to use it?” Jonny returns.

“Of course, I do,” Pat lies. You hold it tight and pass the beads between your fingers, maybe say the Hail Mary or something. He thinks.

“Sure, okay,” Jonny says. He holds the rosary out to Pat. “Teach me.”

“No, you ungrateful atheist asshole,” Pat says mostly because he really, really can’t teach Jonny something he doesn’t know. Still, he grabs the beads out of Jonny’s grasp. He squeezes the cross in palm, thinking about the day his mom gave it to him. It was his First Communion gift.

Pat feels like shit.

Jonny presses a finger to his collarbone. “I left a mark,” he says.

Pat tries to look where Jonny’s pointing, but he can’t really see it. He’ll need to check it out the mirror before practice tomorrow. They’ve never left marks on each other before.

Pats stomach churns at the thought of other people seeing the imprint of Jonny’s teeth on his skin. If it’s still there tomorrow, they definitely will. And, knowing the guys, he’ll get chirped, maybe even the kind of chirping that demands an explanation. Pat doesn’t want to explain. He doesn’t want to lie. But he can’t tell the truth.

And what if he looks at Jonny? What if he gives it away?

Jonny fingers one of Pat’s curls and he kisses Pat’s shoulder before rolling over. “Goodnight, Kaner,” he says.

Pat’s so fucked. There’s absolutely no way that this can end well. But he’s not about to let it go, not yet. He wants to live it up, just a little bit longer.

 

 

Fucking Vancouver.

Seriously, those shitheads should fucking die. Pat hates them.

He’s never been angrier at a loss than he is when they go out in Game 7. He’s angry at himself. He’s angry at everyone that’s ever worn blue and green. He’s (unfairly) angry at Crow. He’s angry at Jonny.

The whole of it, every fucking missed pass and ugly unnecessary hit, plays over in his head on loop. And he wants nothing more than to go out and get so blindingly drunk that he can’t remember his own goddamn name, let alone what happened in that trainwreck of game.

So, they’d pulled off the 8th seed by the skin of their teeth. So, Vancouver’d had a hell of a season. So, nobody expected their series to go 5 games, let alone 7. Still, the Cup belonged to Chicago and Pat was hard pressedto let it go after only one round.

Jonny doesn’t sit next to him on the plane ride back to Chicago. No one does. He’s sure everyone can see how pissed he is. He feels himself vibrating with bitter, vengeful energy.

He knows that it’s worse for Crow, probably, and maybe Jonny, too.

But _goddamn_ , Pat should have been able to pull it out for the team; _he’s_ supposed to be their clutch guy. It’s kind of what he’s known for.

He turns his music up loud enough to damage his eardrums (what the fuck are they good for anyway, _goddamn_ ) and keeps his headphones on the entire flight. He leaves them on as they deboard the plane and climb onto the bus. Once seated, he pulls out his phone. He can’t even process all the notifications, fucking consolation messages no doubt, so he shuts it off.

A few minutes after the bus has begun to move, Jonny slides into the seat next to him. He’s frowning, eyes sad and serious, and his lips are moving, but Pat can’t hear him over Papa Roach. It’s probably for the best. He just looks straight ahead and nods earnestly, to the beat of his music.

Jonny’s expression remains the same and so Pat thinks his mimed attentiveness must be convincing until the moment Jonny reaches over and pulls off Pat’s headphones.

“Hey, Kaner, I’m talking to you,” Jonny says, because he apparently loves to state the obvious. The ringing of a tinny bass and electric guitar are still audible, buzzing up from the headphones now vibrating in Pat’s lap.

“Yeah, yeah. Nice game. Good season. We did our best. Next year will be better. Blah, blah, blah,” Pat says, summing up what he’s sure Jonny just said.

Jonny rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Actually, I asked if I could come over tonight and hang out. Maybe we could ride in to do media and clean out our lockers together tomorrow.”

This catches Pat totally off-guard, and he tenses, instantly hyped-up angry all over again. He and Jonny do three things at his apartment: eat, fuck, and play video games.

Pat wants to drink and he wants to punch someone and he wants to not cry. Jonny would not be a good companion for any of these activities, not right now, anyway.

Mostly, this is because every time he looks at Jonny’s face, he thinks about what things were like last year, about what they could have been like this year, about how epically he failed him and the rest of the team.

“No,” Pat says. “I want to be alone.” Which, that’s a lie because he actually plans on heading out to the bars, getting shwasted and picking up some chick to fuck hard, a chick he’ll never have to think about again.

“Patrick,” Jonny says, using Pat’s full name like he’s his mom or his doctor or his teacher or something. Pat does not need Jonny looking after him. He does not need Jonny making sure he doesn’t go out and make a mess of things. He does not a fucking babysitter.  He grabs at his headphones, fully intending to put them back on and flip Jonny off, but then Jonny says, “It’s been a shitty night and I kind of want…”

Jonny trails off and Pat turns toward him.

His face is stony now, hard set and unreadable, but Pat can see the facade slipping. He can see the smudges under Jonny’s eyes and the deep lines on his forehead. Pat’s not sure that whatever’s going through Jonny’s mind, that whatever exactly he’s asking, that it’s, like,… well, it’s probably not about Pat at all.

The weight of Jonny’s responsibility as captain, the fact that he never lets go of his determined optimism, that he never shows even the slightest lack of confidence in himself or his teammates, that he never can do anything but let losses, even big losses like this one, roll of his shoulders with a promise to do better next time, it all suddenly seems very heavy and very hard to Pat. Pat’s not cut out to carry it all, not like Jonny is, and he’s always known that. But, for the first time in three years, Pat finds himself wondering if the responsibility isn’t more difficult for Jonny than he lets on.

He reaches over and squeezes Jonny’s hand, quickly of course, so no one sees, and says, “Yeah, you should come over, man.”

He regrets the words immediately because, no matter how badly Jonny may feel right now and no matter how much Pat really, really _needs_ to make it better now that he knows, Pat still does not want to have sex (with Jonny), watch tape or play video games.

Jonny smiles at him, still tired and unhappy, but the corners of his lips turn up. It’s enough to make Pat feel like he’s doing the right thing and to steel himself for an evening that may or may not actually end the way he’d like it to.

 ~

When they get to his apartment, he goes right to his bedroom to drop his shit and change into his sweats. He expects Jonny to follow him, to literally boss the pants off him, to push him back onto his mattress and to fuck into him with his fingers. That’s the kind of mindless body release Pat’s sort of craving, even if he’d rather not seek it with Jonny.

Total release is never quite possible with Jonny because Pat’s never really _mindless_ with Jonny. Jonny’s a guy and Jonny’s his linemate and Jonny’s his friend. When he fucks around with Jonny, he’s never just fucking around, he’s always fucking around _with Jonny_. 

Still, he is ready to _fuck._

As his sweatpants snap around his waist, he hears the TV flip on in the living room. Jonny’s turned it to something with explosions which Pat can totally get on board with, actually.

When he comes in, Jonny’s also in his sleep clothes, stripped down to his boxer briefs, his suit now hanging on the outside of Pat’s coat closet. He takes up the whole couch, his head resting just below one arm and the backs of his calves covering the other. Pat stands in the doorway for a few seconds, watching him watch TV.

Jonny can sit so still, something Pat’s a little a jealous of. But he’s not sitting still now. He keeps shifting and turning, trying to get comfortable.

“Is there room for me?” Pat asks.

Jonny smiles up at him and the brightness of it catches Pat off guard. But then his surprise reminds him why he feels like shit right now and why Jonny probably shouldn’t look so damn content.

“Of course, there is,” Jonny says. “It’s your goddman couch, man.”

But Jonny doesn’t move, not at first. Pat stands over him, glaring, until Jonny finally sits up enough to make room for him. As soon as Pat settles, Jonny lays back down, his head now pillowed in Pat’s lap.

Pat runs his fingers through Jonny’s hair, massaging his scalp, letting the fine strands prickle pleasantly against his palm. The gesture’s stupid and girly and Pat kind of hates that he likes it so much, but none of that stops him.

Pat isn’t watching the movie, not really. He doubts Jonny is either. It’s got Bruce Willis, but that’s all he really knows because he’s back to the game, the series really, on replay in his head. He should have been able to pull out another goal. It’s his fucking job.

Jonny says, “That really sucked.”

And Pat doesn’t know if he means the game, or the series or the whole damn season. Not that it matters, because it can’t matter, not anymore. What matters, as Jonny will no doubt remind everyone tomorrow in some terrible cliché captain’s speech, what matters is that they played hard and they’ll have another chance to do so again next year.

“Yeah,” Pat agrees. “It did.”

~

They sit like that for a long time, long after the movie ends and another begins, with Pat’s hand in Jonny’s hair.

Sometime close to dawn, they migrate to Pat’s bed, just for a couple of hours. The sleep like they always do now, when they share a bed, back’s pressed up against each other. Not wrapped up in each other, not close and cuddly, but intimate, present to one another, all the same.

Pat’s alarm wakes them and it’s both way too early and way too late. Jonny rolls over and presses a close mouthed kiss against Pat’s lips before falling out of bed and into the bathroom.

The kiss is casual, chaste and totally non-sexual. Pat’s heartbeat skitters. He’s confused, he realizes, as he pours himself a cup of coffee, because for all that he and Jonny have _something_ , he’s certain that it’s supposed to be a sex something.

Sure, they also have a teammate something and a friend something, but they don’t have an anything else something. Like he tried to tell himself months ago when he decided to really go through with this whole (sex) something, anything more than sex would be pointless and stupid, no matter how much he wants it.

But it doesn’t feel pointless when Jonny enters the kitchen and says, “Thank you. I didn’t want to be alone last night.”

And it doesn’t feel stupid when Jonny squeezes Pat’s elbow, before reaching around to pour his own cup of coffee.

 

 

Pat’s sweating. He can feel the beads of moisture track down his back between his skin and dress shirt. It’s a lovely church for a wedding, really it is, sunlight echoing around the arched ceilings, but, right now, Pat wishes the sanctuary were air conditioned.

Jonny’s sitting next to him and he keeps shooting Pat these little, smirky smiles. They haven’t seen each other in months, not since they’d cleared out their lockers and headed back to their respective hometowns.

They’d called twice and Skyped once (a very short and very awkward affair at Pat’s insistence), but mostly they’ve just texted, every day, multiple times a day. Pat’s sent Jonny pictures, of the stats on the treadmill, of his breakfasts, of the Lake, of the hockey articles, of numbers scribbled on napkins by drunken fans. And Jonny’s shot back 140 character sarcastic quips to every damn one. (Twitter is seriously missing out because Jonny’s wit is high quality, perfect for microblogging. More than once Pat has asked if he could _please please_ share.

But, no, Jonny is not interested in _that kind_ of publicity.)

So Jonny’s been sort of in Pat’s life all summer long, every mundane text reminding him of kissing Jonny, of wrapping his lips around Jonny’s cock, and of Jonny’s fingers touching, teasing, pressing into Pat’s ass. Pat’s really fucking missed him, but the distance has been good, too. From Buffalo, Pat can see that they needed to cool things off, maybe go back to being more like BFFs and less like boyfriends.

And yet, with Jonny’s knee now knocking against his in this tight, tiny pew, Pat thinks maybe, at least, they can be BFFs that still get each other off, sometimes. Like tonight, they should probably hook-up. That would be good.

The priest or pastor or whoever, the old, robed man standing between Kelly and Duncs, is preaching and Pat tries to rip his mind away from the idea of sex with Jonny so that he can pay attention. It’s what his mom would want him to do.

“God has put this man and this woman together for a purpose,” the guy in the robe is saying. “He’s put them together to be fruitful, to become a family. And in order to fulfill that purpose, Duncan is going to love Kelly, to shower her with attention and affection. Whether that means sending her flowers or spending a little extra time _talking_ on the phone, he’s never going to let her forget how much he adores her.”

Duncs and Kelly laugh a little at this. Pat can feel the collective wince from his row, which is filled with Dunc’s hockey friends. It’s an ongoing battle for a lot of them to do what the pastor is suggesting, to make sure their wives and girlfriends know they’re important, to prevent them from feeling like they’re second to hockey. Pat’s never had a girlfriend so he can’t be sure, but he thinks, if he did, she probably _would_ be second to hockey, most of the time.

The pastor continues, “And Kelly is going to do everything she can to make sure that Duncan knows she loves him. The second chapter of Genesis tells us that she was created to be the perfect helper and I know, from the time I’ve been able to spend with these two, that she is. She’s a strong lady, those of you folks who don’t know her yet, and she’s going to make certain that everything is taken care of in their home.”

Jonny kicks Pat and murmurs in his ear, “Who the fuck is this guy, anyway?”

Pat shrug. He has no idea how this guy knows so much about Duncs and Kelly, but he’s describing their relationship accurately, as far as Pat can tell. Pat knows Kelly already does all of Duncs’ laundry, cooks these elaborate healthy meals for him, and keeps their home in tip-top shape. She’s filled with ideas about how they can put Duncs’ millions to good and charitable use. She’s so awesome and so perfect for Duncs that Pat’s almost sick with jealousy. He wants that life, or, actually, he wants for that life to be the type of life that would make him happy, so badly.

The priest says, “God made men and women compatible, to fit together. And I can honestly say that I’ve never met a man and a woman more exemplary of that compatibility than this couple.”

One of the bridesmaids drops her bouquet. Actually, it looks more like she throws it, but that would be weird and inappropriate. Pat decides she must have just dropped it, hard and, perhaps, intentionally.

The priest pauses as the woman reaches down to grab it back up, and Kelly turns to shoot her a huge, amused grin and mouth “I love you, Kate.”

“The fuck is her problem?” Jonny mutters. This time he leans close enough that his lips actually brush Pat’s ear, sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine. He wonders if they have enough time between the ceremony and reception to head back to the hotel for round of quick hjs.

~

They do.

~

Jonny goes into Pat’s hotel bathroom, afterward, to wash his hands. Pat follows him. In the mirror he catches sight of it: a small red blotch, no bigger than nickel, is blossoming on the side of his neck.

“Jonny,” he says, pointing to the hickey. “This is a problem.”

Jonny runs a finger over it, eyes darkening as he licks his lips. “Sorry,” he says.

Pat swallows. Jonny’s finger is still on his throat and he does not sound sorry.

“Seriously, Jonny. That mark wasn’t there at the ceremony and now it is and somebody is going to notice. Probably fucking Seabs, if we’re lucky. Sharpy, if we’re not.”

Jonny walks back into the bedroom and picks up his dress pants. “Tell him you got it on with one of the bridesmaids. It’d be _totally like you_.”

Pat presses his own finger against the mark. Part of him really, really wants to be able tell Seabs or Sharpy that it was Jonny who put it there because Jonny is kind of a catch and people should know that Pat can totally land a babe.

Also, Sharpy would probably give Jonny all kinds of shit for being a biter.

Pat says, “I haven’t slept with any chicks, not since, like, December.” And why the hell did he tell Jonny that? Now Jonny’s going to think Pat like _likes_ him or some shit, that Pat maybe thinks they’re exclusive. Which he doesn’t. (Okay, maybe he _likes_ Jonny, but he has no illusions that they’re a _thing._ ) He reads the gossip columns and he keeps up with all their mutual friends on Instagram. He knows Jonny’s still hitting the clubs and banging chicks pretty damn regularly.

 Jonny whirls around. “Why the fuck not?”

And, yeah, Pat definitely should not have told him. He’s going to think Pat’s clingy and needy and Pat _knows_ Jonny _hates_ that in a girlfriend. He’s broken up with four or five lovely ladies for that reason.

But then Jonny says, “You do guys exclusively now that I’ve pulled you out of the closet?”

Pat swallows. He doesn’t know what the hell Jonny’s talking about. “I like fucking girls,” he says.

“Sure,” Jonny replies, rebuttoning his shirt and adjusting his tie.

Pat has no idea how Jonny’s managed to completely disrobe during their impromptu fuckfest while Pat hadn’t taken off even one item clothing.

“I do,” Pat reiterates.

“Some of the bridesmaids were looking mighty fine,” Jonny says. “How about that one that tossed the flowers, eh?”  
Pat frowns. He hadn’t noticed what she’d looked like. He’d spent most of the ceremony in his head, trying to decide if Jonny was wearing a new cologne or if he’d just started using a different deodorant.

“You should pick her up,” Jonny says, as he opens the door. “I bet she’d go down on you and I know you’re itching for, some really good head. I could tell that’s what you wanted from me.”

And, well, Pat _does_ want it from Jonny. He does not want it from some rando chick who’s close friends with Kelly.

~

Jonny doesn’t let the issue go. They’re sitting the table, each sipping a glass of Duncan Delight, some sort of signature cocktail involving a whole hell of a lot whiskey and not much else, and watching the dance floor fill up, when Jonny says, “Look at her, though.”

He’s nodding toward the bridesmaid, Kate, who’s dancing close with some other chick in a tight blue dress.  She’s pretty, he supposes, small and fine-boned, her hair a dark bob that bounces as the other girl twirls her around.

Seabs plops down next to him. He’s carrying a beer.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Pat asks, because he’s been seeing people with beers all night, but the bartender at least feigns ignorance every time he’s asked about them.

Seabs grins. “Duncs’ cousins brought a stash in their truck. Home-brewed. It’s pretty good, but only for insiders.”

“Fuck Duncs’ cousins,” Pat says, hearing the whiny edge to his voice and trying not care.

Jonny says, “If you’re not going to pick her up, I might try.” And he stands.

Seabs reaches across Pat to pull Jonny down. “Woah, Jonny, boy. If you mean, Kate, she’s taken,” he says. He sips his beer and waggles his eyebrows at Pat. “She is a looker, though, isn’t she?”

“Seriously, a ‘looker?’ Are you my grandpa?” Pat thinks Seabs is secretly an eighty year old creeper trapped in a twenty-someshit year old’s body.

“Where is he? I don’t see a boyfriend anywhere,” Jonny says, whipping his head around as if he expects to see some burly dude lurking behind a pillar.  Pat thinks Jonny’s pretty drunk and he wonders if he’s drunk enough to sleep with Pat again today, despite his clear hetero intentions.

“That girl she’s dancing with? In the blue dress? That’s her wife, dude,” Seabs says.

“What?” Pat says. Because, really, _what?!_

Seabs shrugs. “They’re friends of Kelly’s from playing basketball at McGill. They got married last summer and Kelly was in their wedding. Duncs went. Said it was cool.”

Jonny’s tense beside Pat and Pat gets it because he’s tense, too. Pat says, “But they’re both women.”

Seabs looks at him like he’s stupid. Maybe he is. “Pat. They’re lesbos. They like other women. It’s a thing. Surely this isn’t the first time you’ve heard of homosexuality…”

Jonny punches Pat in the arm and says to Seabs, like a fucking hypocite, “Give him a break, man. He’s American. They’re a little slow on all this.”

Seabs swallows the last of his beer. “I’m gonna go find more of this. Talk to you boys later.”

As he tucks his chair back into the table he says, “Pat, you’d better get out on that dance floor. I bet on seeing some sweet moves from your hot ass and I’d better not lose my money.”

Pat finger guns him. “You know it,” he says.

Jonny flicks him in the neck and it stings. Pat thinks he might’ve aimed at the hickey he’d left earlier.

~

Pat watches the married chicks dance and he sees it, the easy way they are with each other. He sees the way the bridemaid’s, Kate’s, hands slide down to settle on her lover’s waist, the way her lover leans in and brushes their noses together, and the way the negotiate their time on and off the dance floor as a unit.

He wonders how they can be so open about it. He figures maybe it’s easier for girls, who’re allowed to touch each other and dance with each other and still just be friends. Hell, the thought that they might be more than friends, let alone wives, hadn’t even crossed his mind until Seabs had brought it up.

Pat wonders what it would be like to have a boyfriend or a husband. He wonders what it would be like to twirl Jonny around on the dance floor. Once the thought strikes he can’t stop thinking it. He can’t stop thinking about holding Jonny’s hands in his, about slipping his arms around Jonny’s neck, about pressing a kiss to Jonny’s cheek, about dancing closer, grinding against each other. 

He moves away from the table where Jonny and Sharpy and Abby are sitting, to go to the bar for another drink. While he’s waiting, his eyes find those women again. They’re not dancing, just standing close, right in one another’s space, at a table filled with other tall, strong, lovely looking women. Kate rests a hand gently across her lower abdomen and, shit, Pat thinks, it’s a little swollen. Her partner catches her eye and steps away from the group to pour her a glass of water. Pat thinks, _she’s pregnant._ Those women are married and they’re going to have a baby.

Pat can’t look away. His stomach is churning with nerves he doesn’t quite understand. He downs the shot of whiskey he’s somehow wheedled out of the bartender and begs him for another. The man seems to carefully assess Pat’s condition, which sure as shit isn’t drunk enough, and does as he asks.

Pat’s throwing his third consecutive shot of whiskey down when the woman in blue, Kate’s wife, sees him watching them. She frowns and begins to make her way through the crowd, toward him.

Head starting with swim with a buzzing warmth from the whiskey, Pat catalogues all the things he wants to ask her. When did she tell people? Was it scary? How did she and her partner decide to get married? Did a _priest_ do it? What’s it like, having people know? Is it worth it?

Then, he realizes his train of thought. He realizes that if he were to ask her these things, people might start to suspect. People might start to get the wrong idea about him. And, no, that’s the opposite of what Pat needs in his life, especially when things with Jonny are confusing the shit out of him.

He leers at her, eyes lingering too long on her cleavage, like a good, macho straight dude. 

She puts a finger up in his face. “Look, bro, I am not interested and neither is Kate. We don’t do men, like at all, and we don’t like to be _watched_ by them either. We are not objects for your sexual pleasure. We’re friends of Kelly and Duncan’s here to celebrate their marriage and you need to turn your horny-ass gaze elsewhere.”

That pisses Pat off. He can feel the alcohol heavy and hot in him. His fists ball up. This piece of shit dyke has no idea who the fuck he is or what the hell is going on in his head and she can go suck it.

And, whoops, he said that out loud. Sorry (not sorry, bitch.)

“Fuck you, I know who you are,” she says. “And I know your reputation with women. And I’m not going to put up with it.”

Pat’s vision blurs because she doesn’t know shit about him, no one fucking does. Pat realizes, as his arms fly to her shoulders, that he shouldn’t do it, that he needs to get out of there and calm the fuck down, but he grabs at her, anyway.

Duncs is beside Pat, suddenly, before he can even shake her, pulling him away. Kelly, following right behind him says, “I told you this would happen. You promised none of your friends would make an issue of this.”

And Pat does have some self-control, he _does_ , because he does not spit on her before saying. “Holy shit, Kelly, this bitch came on to me. I didn’t do shit to start this, so fuck off.” 

Duncs tightens his hold and starts to pull Pat away from the party. He lets himself be led, until he notices that Jonny’s following closely.

“What the hell, Jonny?” he asks. “Now you pay attention to me?” And he knows the word vomit is coming before it’s out. He says, “Now you think I’m worth your time? You’d rather babysit me than go fuck a chick? You know I’m not going to put out, right? Not fucking now.”

Jonny says to Duncs, “I’m really sorry, man. You know how he gets sometimes. I’ll make sure—“

“Don’t fucking apologize for me,” Pat says, turning to Duncs because that man should know the truth. “That bitch accused me of some pretty sucky bullshit. I was watching her and her hot-ass wife because I thought they seemed cool, not because I wanted to fuck them, so she can back the hell off. I did nothing wrong.”

Jonny frowns. “Maybe that was true, until you physically assaulted her. You know that shit’s not cool. Like, what the hell. You can’t just grab people. I don’t fucking care how much you’ve had to drink.”

Pat looks around, trying to land his gaze anywhere but Jonny. Duncs is gone, arguing with Kelly and Pat thinks it’s his fault. He ruined their wedding with his temper and all his messed up gay feelings. He turns to Jonny, “I’m sorry. I really messed up. I think…”  He doesn’t want to finish the sentence. He really doesn’t want to end things with Jonny and go back to pretending to be straight, but that’s probably what he needs to do. It’ll probably prevent him from more of the shit he’d pulled tonight.

Jonny says “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

He sounds sober, which, okay, there really wasn’t that much to drink available. Pat had had to beg for his three shots. Still, he hates it when he’s drunk off his ass and Jonny is stone cold sober. It’s the one set of circumstances under which he most certainly will not get laid.

He starts to think his luck might have changed because once he gets into his room, Jonny begins to unbutton Pat’s shirt. Then, he gets down on his knees and begins to untie Pat’s shoelaces.

It’s fucking hot and has Pat damning his still soft whiskey dick. Jonny shoves Pat back onto his bed and, okay, maybe he’s up for a fuck with or without Pat’s compliance.

Pat watches as Jonny strips down to his briefs and crawls into bed next to him. Jonny wraps himself around Pat and whispers in his ear, “You need to calm down and get some rest.”

Jonny presses a series of soft kisses along Pat’s jaw and neck and shoulder before rolling onto his side, and, eventually, Pat sleeps.

~

The next morning Pat wakes up alone.

 He figures he must have dreamt Jonny’s tenderness the night before because all he gets the next morning is cold stares and ugly frowns. No one talks to him, not Jonny, not Duncs, not Seabs.

He sits by himself in the hotel restaurant and watches the other guys dick around, throwing bits of bacon at each other and showing each other pictures they’d caught the night before on their phones.

His stomach’s still roiling and nothing’s settling it, not his cup of coffee, not the greasy heap of potatoes he’s making his way through. He thinks maybe he’ll get himself a drink on the plane in a couple hours, hair of the dog and all that.

After the rest of the guys head back to their rooms, Jonny sits down across from him. “I don’t think you should come golfing with us today,” he says. “Some of the guys are pretty pissed about last night and they need a little while.”

“Not gonna. I never planned on it. My flight to Buffalo leaves at two this afternoon.” Pat’s kind of mad that Jonny doesn’t remember his schedule. Pat’d texted him when he’d bought the tickets, hoping Jonny’d want him to stick around a little longer, hoping that Jonny’d want to _catch up_ , to spend some _quality_ time together. Jonny had only texted back a quick ‘k,’ but whatever, the least he could do is _remember_.

Jonny narrows his eyes at Pat. He starts to open his mouth, and then shuts it. Jonny’s just stood to go, when Pat decides, no, he can’t stand this and pulls at Jonny’s arm, forcing him to sit back down.

Jonny complies, easily, and waits for Pat.

Pat says, “Look, Jonny, I’m sorry about last night. I was drunk.”

“Really? I thought you decided to beat up some chick sober this time,” Jonny bites out.

Pat clenches his jaw. “She was being a bitch, Jonny, accusing me of shit that was untrue.”

“Yeah, so obviously the right reaction is to grab her and shake her.” Jonny’s looking straight at him, gaze so direct, so angry, that it’s painful and Pat has to look down, into his coffee cup.

After a moment, Pat says, “Her wife’s pregnant, you know?” 

Jonny sighs.

Pat says, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m an asshole. I know I am, especially when I’m drunk. I’ve been working on it, though, you know I have been.”

Jonny rubs his neck. He looks so unhappy and Pat doesn’t know what he can say to make it better. **B** ut he knows that he wants to make it better. He wants Jonny to smile at him again.

Jonny says, “You shouldn’t be apologizing to me. You need to be having this conversation with Kelly and Duncs and probably Kelly’s friends.”

Pat nods. He knows Jonny’s right. That doesn’t mean he’s ready to have the conversations. That doesn’t mean he’s figured out what he can say to make it up to them. That doesn’t mean he’s ready to admit that the chick wasn’t totally out of place to come at him like she did. But he does know he really messed up an important moment for Duncs and Kelly and he’s got to say _something_ about it.

He’s also got to figure a way to make it up to Jonny. He kicks Jonny under the table and offers him a tentative smile.

Jonny frowns. “Um, Kaner. I need to tell you something.”

Pat’s heart clenches and he says, “What?” even though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.

“I’m not sure... Well, I’ve met this girl. We’ve run into each other at a few parties and now we’ve gone on a few dates. She’s really great, like maybe, we’ll… I don’t know, but I like her.”

Jonny looks over at Sharpy and Abby, who’ve just come into the dining the room holding hands. Suddenly, Pat feels like shit. His stomach turns over and he thinks about running for the bathroom to wretch over a toilet.

“Yeah?”

Jonny nods. “I’m gonna ask her to be exclusive. So.” He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t have to.

Jonny’s found his Abby, his Kelly. He’s trying to let Pat down, tell him that he’s going back to girls, that maybe he’s found The Girl. And even if he hasn’t found her, Pat’s sure, now, that Jonny’s looking for The Girl. Any crazy thoughts Pat might have had while watching those wives spinning each other around on the dance floor, well, they were just that: crazy.

“Cool,” Pat says.

 

 

Pat’s wedding indiscretion is kept quiet. His family doesn’t even find out and, for that, he’s grateful, sort of. He doesn’t have to deal with the drama of bad press. His sisters and his Buffalo friends continue to talk to and hang out with him.

But in the three weeks between Duncs wedding and the convention, he doesn’t hear from anyone on the team, except in random group texts. Even the guys that weren’t at the wedding seem to be avoiding contact. That fucking hurts and Pat has no one to whom he can complain about it, not if he doesn’t want to explain _his_ fuck-up and not if he doesn’t want to interrupt Jonny and his girlfriend.

The worst moment of his vacation is when Erika pulls him aside, a week after he’s gotten home from the Canada wedding expedition, and asks him if he and Jonny are having relationship problems. He reaches around and slams his door shut behind her and he asks what the hell’s her deal. He explains, as softly and vehemently as he can, that he and Jonny don’t have the type of “relationship” that has “problems.”

And she says, “Well, obviously not anymore because he’s got himself some hot model girlfriend.”

Pat’s stomach rolls and he throws himself down on his bed. “Yeah, he told me about her. She sounds really great.”

Erica’s eyebrows furrow. “Oh Pat,” she says and reaches out to squeeze his socked foot.

“Oh stop that, Erica. I’ll probably have a girlfriend of my own, soon. I could get one way hotter than Jonny’s, for sure.” He can’t look at her. Her sad, pity-filled eyes always poke at and open up that tender place in Pat’s chest.

She sits down beside him. “Pat, I thought maybe…” She stops.

Pat wants her to finish, so that he can correct her. “You thought what?”

“I thought maybe you were done pretending. You’re so happy with Jonny.” She moves her hand up to grip his bare ankle. “I think you should come out.”

Pat pulls away from her and says, “Whatever, Erica. That thing with Jonny was just a buddies thing, nothing serious or long-term or romantic or anything. We didn’t hold hands or cuddle or talk about our feelings or anything, like with girls,” Pat explains. He’s sort of lying. He’s come closer to all of those things with Jonny than he ever has with any girl, but whatever.

He says, “I’m gonna marry a girl and have a family and it’s going to be awesome. So’s Jonny. That’s the way it works.”

Erica nods. “It doesn’t have to work that way. Things are changing.”

Pat thinks again about the lesbian couple at Duncs’ wedding, about the way the woman in the blue dress had pressed her hand over the soft swell of her wife’s pregnant belly. 

He says to Erica, “I have to do my work out.”

 

 

Pat hasn’t spoken directly to anyone on the team for weeks when he arrives at his apartment in Chicago before the Convention. So he’s surprised when, twenty minutes after he drops his bags down in his bedroom, there’s someone calling to be let in.

He answers and it’s Jonny, of course, saying he’s brought Pat dinner, and from India House, which is in Pat’s top five favorite restaurants, at least.

Pat lets him up, wondering what it’s going to be like, if Jonny’s still mad at him, if he wants to lecture him, if he wants to try to be friends again, if he, like Pat, can’t stop thinking about- no. Pat’s not even going to entertain that idea.

Because he wants it too badly and he knows that he can’t have it. Even if Jonny’s changed his mind, Pat’s decided he needs to work on being a better person and, hopefully, also, a better hockey player. This, giving up whatever it was he had with Jonny, is just one of the many little changes he has to make. 

He and Jonny exchange cool pleasantries over dinner at Pat’s kitchen counter. Jonny talks about the golf tournament he hosted and about his baby cousin’s birthday. Pat talks about the plane ride in and his sister’s college search. They keep falling into awkward silences, during which it’s all Pat can do to not ask Jonny what the hell he’s doing here.

When Pat’s at the sink washing their forks and glasses, he feels Jonny press in close against his back. He feels Jonny’s breath against his ear as he says to Pat, “Fuck, Kaner, I’ve missed you.”

Pat sets the dishes down and arches back into Jonny. He can feel that Jonnys’s already half-hard in his sweats.

Jonny grips Pat’s hips, pulling his ass tighter against his dick, and begins to lay wet kisses against the exposed skin of Pat’s nape and neck.

Pat says, “Are we going to talk to about your girlfriend?”

Jonny nips at him and says, “Not my girlfriend anymore.”

Pat closes his eyes and wonders what the hell is happening. But then, Jonny’s hand is on his dick and he doesn’t really care why Jonny’s here or if this just another one-time, buddies hook-up.

Pat feels a little better (and so, so much worse) when Jonny says, “I realized I’m not ready to be serious with anyone.” He thrusts, hard, against Pat’s ass.

Pat’s heart swoops up when Jonny clarifies further, “This is still too much fun to give up.”

“Fuck, Jonny,” Pat moans.

“It was like, I was making out with her and her lips, Pat, they’re shit compared to yours. Too fucking thin to really suck into. And she was so shy with her tongue, especially when she was blowing me. And the whole time I was eating her out, I kept thinking how I’d much rather have your dick in my mouth and my fingers up your ass.”

Jonny’s voice is low and his breathing is heavy. He’s holding Pat’s dick in his hand and Pat’s moving, trying to create friction, but apparently Jonny is not done talking. “You’re a great fuck, Pat, but you need to clean up your act for this to work. You’ve got too much media attention on you. Everyone’s holding their breath waiting for you to fuck up again.”

Pat nods. “Yeah, I know. I’m working on it. You know I am.”

Against Pat’s ear, Jonny says, “Let me help you.”

“Yeah,” Pat says, thrusting into Jonny’s fist. “Help me, dude. _Fuck_.”

~

Later, they go out to the bar together to meet the guys. Apparently, the team is done punishing him because while nobody’s overzealous in their welcome, nobody (not even Duncs) ignores him either.  Seabs even buys him a beer and asks after his mom and dad. That’s because Seabs is a kick-ass friend. All his teammates are and he hopes they know that he’s sorry, that he’s trying.

Jonny sticks close to him that night and the three that follow. Still, he flirts with a fair few girls. So does Pat. Actually, Pat even makes out with a couple and that’s nice, to remember that he can like girls, if he wants. But, still, those kisses aren’t nearly as tender nor as sexy as the kisses he and Jonny share each morning when they wake up next to each other.

And, no, that’s probably not because Jonny’s a spectacular kisser. He’s not. Actually, Pat’s quite certain Jonny may be, objectively, a bad kisser because, one night, one of the girls Jonny’s just tried to put the moves on, explains, breath heavy with cheap beer, to Pat that Jonny’s a bit too forward, a bit too rough, a bit too tongue-y to be worth her time. 

The thing is: _Pat_ likes Jonny’s ‘just go for it’ attitude. _Pat_ likes it rough. _Pat_ likes Jonny’s insistent tongue thrusting into his mouth. The thing is: Jonny’s really good at kissing _Pat_.

Pat doesn’t _like_ sharing Jonny, but Pat figures the girls are a good reminder that Jonny’s not really his to share and that Jonny’s kisses, no matter how well his lips fit together with Pat’s, are just temporary.

Their goodbye at the end of the Convention is reluctant, but also hopeful. Just another couple months and their lives will completely overlap again. So, sated from an earlier round of bjs,  they kiss and kiss until Jonny’s phone alarm goes off, letting them know that’s he’s got five minutes till the car picks him up.

While Jonny’s in the bathroom, on a whim, Pat sticks one of his shirts, a long sleeve tee with Kane slapped across the back, into Jonny’s duffle. An odd warmth settles in chest at the thought of Jonny finding it, maybe smelling it, maybe wearing it.

Jonny opens the door and looks at Pat.

“Call me when you get into New York,” Jonny says with a frown and a quick, terribly risky hallway kiss that has Pat’s heartrate skyrocketing.

Pat says with a smirk and a smack on the ass, “Sure, I know how you worry, babe.”

It’s snarky, but it’s also kind of serious. Jonny _does_ worry about Pat, in a different way than he does the other guys. 

“Fuck you.” Jonny’s grins, as he throws his duffle over his shoulder and starts to walk down the hall.

 

 

Before he returns to Chicago in mid-September, his mom takes him shopping. She wants him to buy a new winter coat. She says she’s always seeing pictures of him wearing just his suit jacket into the United Center or out to the plane and that’s not healthy. She’s certain it’s why he catches colds so often (seriously, that was like two times, Mom.) But he can afford a new coat, if it calms her down. And it’s not like he’s has to wear it.

They’re in some ritzy department store that she loves and she’s holding a leather jacket out for him to try on. As he slides one arm in and then the other, she says, “How’s Jonny these days? Are you guys rooming together this fall?”

“I haven’t seen him since the Convention,” he tells her.

She smiles and gestures for him to turn around. “Oh come on, Pat, you’re on the phone with him almost every night. I’m not blind or deaf. Just two days ago you ran out on our family dinner because he called.”

The jacket’s too tight across his shoulders and too tight under his arms. He tells his mom this as he takes it off. Then he says, “It’s not always Jonny.”

She laughs and he realizes just how damning that must sound. “So how’s he doing? How’re his parents? I feel like I haven’t seen Andrée in ages. I wish she would get on Facebook.”

Pat grabs a jean jacket. It’s more his style than the leather, but his mom takes it out of his hands and hangs it back on the rack with a “too casual and not nearly warm enough.”

“They’re good. He keeps telling me about all these giant fish he’s supposedly catching. But he has yet to text me one picture. I think he’s fucking with me,” Pat tells her. That sounds safe, safer, at least, than the most common topic of his and Jonny’s conversations: Jonny’s masturbatory habits and fantasies. 

“Language, Patrick,” she says, reflexively. And then, “Why didn’t he come out and visit you? I thought for sure he’d come this year. Or maybe the two of you might take a trip together?”

Pat shrugs. He’s uncomfortable with this line of questioning, partly because he wishes Jonny had come to visit. He wishes they had vacationed together and he’s maybe a little disappointed that it’s not like that between them. He’s irritated that because they’re more than bros, they have to be extra careful about the bro things they do together. They don’t want anyone to catch on. Or at least that’s the reason he assumes Jonny never made the suggestion, though he has this niggling, prickling suspicion that maybe Jonny wanted the time _away from Pat_ , that he didn’t want to visit or to vacation together.

But Pat’s also uncomfortable with his mother’s curiosity on this topic because he thinks she might know or suspect about their _something_.

He says, “Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you.”

“Choir is going really well since they hired the new director last May. He’s been able to recruit a whole bunch of men. Like your father,” his Mom says, allowing the change in topic suspiciously easily. “I really wish you’d come to church more often when you’re home.”

“Mom,” Pat says, moving to another aisle. “You know how busy I am.”

 His mom catches up and grabs hold of his arms. She turns him around just looks at him. “I didn’t raise you to lie or make excuses, not about church.”

Pat thinks about that for a second and, then, laughs, a quick, sad huff of a laugh. The truth is he probably knows everything there is to know about lying and making excuses (especially about church, about _sinning_ ) and the fact his mother is so in the dark about this only emphasizes it.

She’s frowning at him, visibly upset by the turn the conversation has taken. As far as he’s concerned, it’s her fault for pressuring him. She knows he doesn’t really like to go to church anymore, even if she has no idea why. She hasn’t let go of his arm and her perfectly manicured nails are digging into his bicep.

He shakes her off and says, “I’ll go with you Sunday.”

It’s his last day in town and does kind of want to spend it with his family, anyway.

His mom smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She says, “I wish you wanted to go. I just don’t get why you don’t, but it’s your whole age group, I guess. You’ll come back when you need to get your kids baptized.”

“Maybe,” Pat says, knowing that he probably won’t have kids to baptize and knowing that, more than anything else, his lack of grandchild production will break his mother’s heart.

~

As they shuffle into the pew, Erica whispers to him that the gay priest, Father Clarence, is giving the Mass this morning. He smacks her and she laughs.

He’s glad she’s there, though, because both his parents are sitting in the choir loft and he sure as hell isn’t going to sit through this shit alone. As the service gets underway Pat decides that while he’s pretty sure the priest isn’t gay (because he can’t be, duh), this new choir director totally is. It’s something about the way he styles his hair in spikes and flicks his wrist when conducting.

He writes this in a note to Erica who rolls her eyes and then writes back, _You know better than to go by stereotypes. You’re a jocky bro._

He thinks that her response is uncalled for (both the insinuation that he’s gay _and_ that he’s a bro), so he pinches her arm. She kicks him back and he jerks out of the way, rattling the kneeler. The older woman sitting front of them turns around to glare.

Pat raises his eyebrows at Erica, hinting to this older woman that his sister is clearly the one to blame, and refocuses. The priest says, “Jesus calls us to be leaders, leading our brothers and sisters on earth toward the kingdom of God.” Pat’s not sure what that shit means and he thinks about telling his mom that this kind of crazy talk is exactly why no one wants to go to church anymore.

When Pat goes up to receive the Eucharist, the priest gives him a toothy grin. Maybe Erica is right. Maybe he _is_ gay and maybe he likes Patrick’s sweet ass.  (More likely, though, he’s a hockey fan and thinks Patrick kicks ass.) 

As he’s “genuflecting” after receiving the host, Pat considers whether or not he’d do the dude, if the opportunity presented itself. His ass is definitely not as round or tight or muscly as Jonny’s. Pat knows this, even though he can’t really tell anything about said ass through the robe, because he’s never, ever seen an ass as nice as Jonny’s.  However, the priest _is_ young and broad shouldered and he does have nice eyes.

After Mass finishes, the priest seeks Pat out, zeros in on him and pushes his way past all the elderly folks trying to shake his hand. He’s got that look on his face that fans’ll get sometimes, when they really want an autograph and think he’s about to escape without giving one. Pat’s going be super embarrassed if this dude asks for an autograph right now.

The priest reaches out to shake Pat’s hand, firmly. He smiling, showing many, many teeth, and saying, “Patrick, I really wanted to meet you. Your mom talks about you all the time. She’s really proud of you.”

And Pat flushes because, shit, now he feels conceited. “Yeah, she’s a pretty awesome mom,” he says, feeling stupid.

“She’s really puts in a lot of work around here and we really, really appreciate it. The place literally would not run without her. So I’m glad to finally meet her pride and joy.”

Pat nods.

The priest says, “Do you go to church somewhere in Chicago?”

He doesn’t want to tell this guy no, but he also doesn’t want to lie to a man of God.

Still, his answer must show on his face because the priest laughs and says, “Probably not, eh? Your schedule’s pretty busy, I guess. I have a friend at Old Saint Pat’s. If you ever want someone to drop by with the Eucharist or to say a special prayer or something, I can put you in touch.”

Pat nods again, really not knowing what to say in reply. He can’t imagine ever suddenly wanting Eucharist or a prayer, but he’s not going to say that. The priest looks so damn earnest.

Erica, the grimy, little ass-kisser, says, “Hi, Father Clarence. I liked your homily.”

Father Clarence’s grin widens as he turns to take in Erica and Pat decides that the man is definitely not gay. And, if the way his gaze lingers on his sister’s cleavage is anything to go by, he probably does not want to stay celibate either.

Fuck priests.

 

 

When Pat goes back to Chicago, his life immediately falls into an easy routine, with Jonny at the center of it.

They don’t spend all their time together, but they do know what the other is doing almost all the time. Jonny heads over the arena early every day and meets with his trainer before practice. Pat follows, later, sometimes much later, and meets with his trainer after practice. If they have a game, they’ll go home and nap, separately. If not, they’ll meet at Jonny’s and nap and eat and play video games and jerk each other off.

They shift most of their sex shit over to Jonny’s new place because it’s closer to the UC and to practice at the Ice House. Pat likes the way their lives slot together. He likes that Jonny checks in with him several times a day. He likes that he’s never eating alone anymore. He likes that he doesn’t have to work, like at all, to get laid. He likes cooking for someone else and he likes even better that Jonny cleans up after him. He likes cuddling so hard core they fall off the couch. He likes bickering over the remote. He likes waking up with Jonny’s sweat covering his back from where they’ve been pressed together all night long.

~

Between September and mid-December, Patrick panics over the whole arrangement exactly once: It’s a late November and Pat really wants to wear his green tie. Jess mailed it to him for his birthday and she’s in town to watch the game that night.  He tears up his apartment looking for it, but he can’t find it and, eventually, he gives up grabbing his favorite grey one instead.

When he arrives at the UC, he sees Jonny in the corner of the locker room talking to one of the PR guys. He’s wearing Pat’s green tie.

And, holy shit, there’s no way in hell that Jess won’t notice. He’d gotten the tie in the mail less than two weeks ago. And Pat has no good explanation for how Jonny’d laid hands on it.

The true explanation is damning. He’d worn it the day he’d first opened it and, after the game, he’d followed Jonny back to his apartment where Jonny’d proceeded to pull the tie from around Pat’s neck, only to use it again a moment later to bind Pat’s arms together, behind his back. Jonny’d explained that for once he’d like to give Pat a blow job without being accosted by Pat’s ever-wandering hands.

Pat approaches Jonny immediately, mind buzzing and thoughts blurry.

“Jonny,” he says. “We have to trade ties.”

Both Jonny and the PR dude turn to frown at Pat.

Jonny says, “Why?”

Pat pouts. “You know why. Jess is here tonight.”

The PR guy says, “Your sister?” He’s young, probably only a couple years older than Pat and Jonny, but he’s already mostly bald. Pat doesn’t like the eager note in his voice, so he just scowls at him.

Jonny shrugs and undoes the tie. He says, “I hate that grey one you’re wearing, though, so know I’m not happy about this.” 

Pat blinks at him. “It’s a fucking tie, you dumb-ass.”

Jonny frowns and says “I take my _ties_ very seriously, Patrick. You know that.”

And Pat’s momentarily transported back to Jonny’s kitchen, where Jonny’s on his knees, deep throating Pat’s cock while Pat struggles to loosen the knot keeping his hands secure. Fuck him. Someone (someone other than Erica) is going to find out about this thing they’re doing, and soon, probably.

 

 

Sharpy corners him in early December, after a home game. He says, “We’re going out, lover boy.”

“What?” Pat says, toweling his hair a little harder.

“We’re going out and you’re going to get drunk enough to tell me about your secret love affair.” Sharpy’s in his suit already, tossing his keys back and forth between his palms, clearly antsy to get the fuck out of the locker room. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Pat says, quiet and deliberate.

Sharpy laughs. He fucking laughs. Then he says, “Kaner, really.”

Pat glares at him.

He puts a hand on Pat’s shoulder. “I’m not going to tell anyone anything, but I thought maybe you could use a bro to talk with, other than Jonny who we all know is shit at talking _ladies_. And, man, if you don’t want to say anything, that’s cool, too, but, like, you’re spending so much time with this chick that we, your best bros, are feeling a little neglected.”

“We?” Pat asks, buttoning up his shirt.

Sharpy laughs. “Okay, me, just me tonight.”

Pat nods, “Okay.”

~

They go out for steak, to Jonny’s favorite restaurant, and Pat feels this weird guilty pinch when he texts Jonny where he’s at and with whom.

Sharpy says, “She keeps close tabs on you, eh?”

Pat laughs. “You have no idea. It’s like, um, she’s my babysitter or something.” He realizes that might sound like a complaint, but he doesn’t mean it that way. He really does like having someone to check in with, someone _here_ who’s worrying about him, someone who’s totally invested in making sure he doesn’t make a fool out of himself.

Sharpy smiles. After a moment, he says, “Good, sounds like she’s perfect for you. You’ve needed a babysitter and Jonny’s needed some time off.”

Pat stirs the ice around in his water glass with his straw. For all his perceptiveness, Sharpy clearly has no idea what’s going on. Pat kind of wants to tell him because he wants to tell someone, someone who knows both him and Jonny, someone who would really understand how awesome everything is between them. But he has no idea how Sharpy would react. They’ve never talked about _the gay issue_ before, and even if Sharpy’s cool with the homosexuals, he’s probably not actually cool with his teammates, his own goddamned linemates, fucking. Pat knows he wouldn’t be if he were in Sharpy’s place.

 “You seem happy,” Sharpy prompts as he munches on a slice of fresh bread from the basket between them.

“Yeah,” Pat says. “I am.”

Sharpy looks at him expectantly.  After what must be close to a full minute of silence, he says, “Come on, man. Give me something. When did you guys start dating? How did you meet? Has anyone from your family or the team met her? Does she have huge tits? Why are you being so secretive about it? Is she a butterface? This lack of uptalk is weird for you, especially when you come in wearing her hickeys like three times a week so _everybody fucking knows_.”

Pat swallows a piece of bread too quickly, choking a little. He hadn’t realized he’d been that obvious. He shrugs, trying to act chill, as he says, “I don’t want her to have to deal with the media shitstorm and all the hater fans, especially when it’s not serious.”

“Not serious? It’s been going on at least since the season started. You see her like every fucking time we’re in town, at least twice a week and you never stop fucking texting her.” He punctuates his little speech with a rather sassy head tilt.

Pat’s not sure it will get Sharpy off his back, but he settles on something pretty damn close to the truth. “Neither of us is ready to settle down. And it’d be a big fucking deal if people found out, so…”

Sharpy drops his fork. “She’s famous? Oh my god, she’s famous. Kaner, you beauty, you landed yourself a celebrity. Is she more famous than you? She is, isn’t she?” He cackles.

Pat says, “She’s not nearly as famous as I am. I am _way_ more famous.” This is an argument he’s had frequently with Jonny and he always, _always_ , wins, no matter how many hockey firsts Jonny’s collected.

Between gasping laughs, Sharpy says, “I can tell from the way you’re so adamant that there’s some question. Oh, this is fantastic. You have to tell me who she is. If you don’t, I’m texting Abby to ask what movies have been filming here lately.”

Pat stays quiet. Sharpy’s never going to guess, not so long as Pat keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t let any more clues slip free.

Sharpy quiets and watches Pat. He says, “Shit, you really like her, huh?”

Pat says, “It’s not going to last, so whatever. Please don’t tell anyone.”

Sharpy says, “You sure, man? You sure you can’t make it work? Either way, I’ve got your back, okay?”

Pat nods and really, really wishes he could trust Sharpy, but he can’t. He can’t really trust anyone, not with this.

~

Pat doesn’t go to Jonny’s that night. As he’s brushing his teeth, Pat realizes that what with roadtrips and sleeping with Jonny at his place, this’ll be the first time in over two weeks that he’s fallen asleep in his own bed.

As he crawls under his covers, he thinks it’ll probably be nice. Jonny sleeps with just this stupid duvet instead of sheets and blankets and a quilt like Pat prefers. And then Jonny always fucking hogs the covers, singular or otherwise, no matter which bed they end up in.

But, instead of falling asleep, Pat lays there, thinking about his conversation with Sharpy, about all the ways it could have gone differently, for better or for worse. He wonders if he should tell Jonny that Sharpy knows Pat’s seeing a secret special someone. He doesn’t have any idea what Jonny thinks about people _knowing_ about them.

And then, as he turns over again, he realizes that he doesn’t really know if they are actually _seeing_ each other. He wonders if, for Jonny, this is just convenient sex with a close friend. He wonders if, maybe, he should work harder at making it feel like that.

He has the type of night that, the next morning, he’d claim he hadn’t slept at all, except for the fact that his alarm had pulled him out of some nightmare he can’t quite remember.

When Sharpy offers him a small smile at practice, a smile that seems more like sympathy than chirping, Pat decides not to tell Jonny about the conversation the night before. He needs a friend, just for himself, because at some point this thing they’ve got going will end, and probably badly.

He goes home to Jonny’s that night and somewhere between making an elaborate pasta dinner and getting his ass kicked in Mario Kart and being aggressively cuddled, Pat forgets his plan to reestablish this thing of theirs as buddy sex.

 

 

Pat’s family flies into Chicago for two days before Christmas. The first question his mother asks when she gets inside his apartment is: “Where’s Jonny? Didn’t you say he was going to be around?”

Erica adds, “He told me he was free for Christmas dinner, that his parents were only coming into Chicago over New Year’s.”

Pat stumbles through some half-answer because he and Jonny had pointedly not talked about this next few weeks. They’d completely avoided the obvious question about how they would navigate their relationship (or whatever) with family around.

However, Jonny shows up at Pat’s place a couple hours after his parents arrive with a bottle of (probably very expensive) white wine for his mom, a couple cases of beer for his dad and sisters, and a warm smile for Pat.

After forty-five minutes listening to his mother’s hysterics over the way he’s reorganized his kitchen, Pat would have preferred a kiss over the smile, but, considering the company, he settles.

As Pat puts the alcohol in the fridge, his mom picks up her rant. “I’m just not sure how you expect me to find anything. Your layout makes no sense. Like, Patrick, why are the knives in the same drawer as your measuring cups? Who would think to look there? I’m going to change a few things around, to make things easier for all the cooking we’re going to be doing tomorrow.”

Jonny’s laughing. “I’ve been telling him about those knives for weeks, Donna. He won’t listen to me.”

Pat mouths, “fuck you” to Jonny because he so has not. He’s never touched shit in Pat’s kitchen, the asshole.

Donna turns around and looks between them. “Oh Jonny, I have a hard time believing that. He won’t shut up about you when he calls these days. You’re the _only_ one he listens to, I think.”

Pat flushes. Yeah, maybe he talks about Jonny a lot, but, of course he does, they spend _so_ much time together. He wants to reassure Jonny that it’s not like _that_. But he can’t, not here, not with his mom listening.

~

The whole family gets pretty tipsy. By the end of the night, his sisters are falling all over themselves, giggling about nothing, and his mother and father are team-telling raunchier and raunchier stories from their sordid pasts. He and Jonny sit close on the couch, touching from shoulder to knee and occasionally giving each other little pats and squeezes. No one says a word about their behavior. His family doesn’t seem to notice that anything’s different. Maybe it’s because this is how they’ve always seemed, always in each other’s space and finishing each other’s sentences. But maybe, Pat wonders (hopes), it’s because his family sort of, tacitly, gets it and approves.

When Erica announces that she’s ready for bed, looking pointedly at the fold out couch, Jonny scrambles up and begins to collect his things. Pat’s mom stops him saying, “Oh, come on, Jonny. Stay here tonight. You should be part of the family festivities.”

Erica throws a pillow at Pat and says, “Oh my god, Mom.” Pat flicks her off, with no idea what the hell’s her problem.

Jonny shoots Pat a searching glance, but Pat’s not sure what question he’s asking or what answer he’s looking for. Jonny says, “Donna, you don’t have to… I mean, this place is packed already. There’s nowhere for me to sleep.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jonny. You can sleep with Pat,” she says. Pat drops the bag of chips he’s carrying and a few spill out onto the floor. He thinks his mom has just suggested that Jonny sleep in his bed, with him, like, _like she knows._

Erica throws another pillow at him and then third at their mom. “Mom, this is so not fair. My boyfriend couldn’t even come to Chicago because, and I quote, _Christmas is for family_ , and now Pat’s boyfriend gets to do all the family stuff and _sleep_ with him. You even made Jake stay a hotel when he came to visit us in Buffalo.” 

Pat can’t catch his breath. The room feels like it’s spinning and he has to sit down or get out of here or something.

Pat’s dad says, “Well, Jonny doesn’t want to get Patrick pregnant, so that’s the main difference there, honey.”

“He would if he could,” Erica says and waggles her eyebrows at Jonny who’s standing tense beside Pat.

And apparently his family is going crazy because Jess, sweet, quiet, non-confrontational Jess, smacks Erica. “Don’t say that about them. It’s not a funny joke,” she shouts. “I know you think it’s hilarious to call them boyfriends or whatever, but it’s not. They’re not and I hate people always saying that they are.”

“Who?” asks Jonny, apparently not afraid to jump into the fray. “Who’s always saying that?”

Everyone’s looking between Jonny and Jess. Even Erica’s watching, as she rubs at her cheek, bright red from the imprint of Jess’ palm.

Jess shakes her head and she’s crying now, tears streaking down her cheeks. “I don’t know, people, like at school and stuff. Usually, if it’s not about actual hockey stuff, they just want to know about your epic bromance or whatever, but sometimes, it’s different. Like there’s this one girl in my astronomy lab who told me she’s sure it’s more.”

Jonny sighs and shrugs, suddenly looking considerably more relaxed. “Yeah, whatever, we’ve always had _those_ fans.”

Jess says, “I hate that they think that about you. Because it’s not true.”

But it is true and he knows it and Jonny knows it and Erica knows it and maybe... Pat can’t look at his parents, no matter how much he wants to, he just can’t. Instead, he reaches down to pick up the chips he’s spilled.

The silence lengthens, broken only by the crinkling of the chip bag and an occasional hiccupping sob from Jess.

Finally, Pat’s mom says, “It’s time for bed, guys. Jonny, you’re staying here, with Pat, no arguments. It’s late.”

As they stand beside one another at the sink, brushing their teeth, Jonny’s eyes keep catching Pat’s. Pat knows what he’s thinking because Pat’s thinking it too. He can’t stop wondering what his parents think about them, about their relationship.

As they slide under the covers, Pat says, “I’m sorry about all that. My family can be a little, um, crazy, you know?”

Jonny says, “Jess can really do some damage, apparently. Remind me not to get that girl angry.”

Pat laughs. “I honestly had no idea she had that in her.”

They don’t talk about what she said. Pat doesn’t know how he feels about it, not really, not yet.

Pat’s just drifted off when he hears Jonny whisper, “Kaner.”

He groans out a, “What?”

“This is kind of important,” Jonny says and Pat wonders why, if it’s so goddman important, he has to say it now, in the middle of the fucking night when Pat’s almost asleep.

“Okay?”

“I would like to get you pregnant,” Jonny says.

Pat rolls farther away from him, “Go the fuck to sleep, Jonny. You’re not making sense.”

“I want to fuck you,” Jonny says. “I want to put my dick in your ass. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

Pat says, “Too tired. Going to sleep.”

Jonny moves closer and says, into Pat’s neck, “Not right now, dickhead. Later, another time, but soon, too, I hope.”

Pat does not want to negotiate their sexual relationship at this particular moment, but he figures he could probably be convinced, so he says, “Sounds good, but shut up. I’m sleeping now.”

And Pat’s not awake long enough to find out if Jonny actually does shut up.

~

Over the next two days, nobody in the family mentions his and Jonny’s relationship. Actually, they’re suspiciously silent about it, so silent that Pat suspects that the five of them must have had a conversation while Jonny and Pat were at practice during which they’d come to some sort of agreement to never speak of it again.

But the proverbial floodgates have opened for Pat and, for the rest of the holiday, he keeps finding himself engrossed in a fantasy world where Jonny is his boyfriend. In this world, they’re really serious about each other, so serious that Pat’s introduced him to the fam and the fam loves him and is ready to accept him into their midst. In this world, Jonny wants him around all the time, forever, and he wants them to live together and, even, to start their very own family. 

It’s a pretty awesome world and, actually, pretty easy to live into.

He almost forgets that Jonny’s not actually _his_ until he catches himself almost reaching to grab Jonny’s hand as they walk into morning skate together the day after Christmas. When he sees them come in, side by side, Sharpy says, “How was the time with the family, my darling lovebirds?”

Jonny flicks Sharpy off, completely unphazed, because stupid chirping allusions to some imagined romantic relationship between the two of them are normal from Sharpy. He’s been on about it since they were rookies.

Sharpy waves Pat over and asks, “Your parents were in town, right? Did you introduce them to your special friend?” 

Pat grins and decides to be honest. He really wants to share this with _someone_. “Yeah, I did. It went so well. They all love each other, a giant Kane family love fest, just the way I like.”

Sharpy laughs and squeezes his arm. “Good for you. I’m glad. This one sounds like a keeper.”

~

New Year’s Day lunch with the Toews is a little crazy. Jonny’s rented a party room at local restaurant and invited the whole team. It’s a nice gesture, but Pat kind of feels bad for his parents and brother who flew all this way to spend time with _Jonny_ , not with Jonny and Co _._

When Pat’s taking a breather from ass-kicking at pool, Andrée sits down next to him.

“Did you and Jonny have a good time with you folks at Christmas? I know he was with you, but he wouldn’t say a word about it. You know how he is.” She squeezes Pat’s arm and smiles at him.

Pat smiles. “It was great.” He’s not sure what else to say about it. “My sisters got into a physical fight. That was exciting, I guess.”

Andrée laughs, “And here I thought that if I’d had girls I might’ve avoided all that roughhousing, but your mother tells me otherwise. How _is_ she doing?”

Pat twiddles his thumbs, “Good, you know. She tried a few new recipes out on us, so that was interesting. I love her, but she’s not really the best cook.”

“Jonny says you’re getting pretty good in the kitchen,” Andée says and winks at him.

Pat shrugs, curious how the hell that came up. He’s been cooking _a lot_ for him and Jonny, when they’ve been at home. He’s been on Mexican kick lately, during which Jonny hasn’t stopped complaining because he’s a wuss about spicy shit. “I like to cook, yeah.”

“Actually,” Andree says. “David and I were hungry when we got in last night and raided Jonny’s freezer. Did you make the chili that was in there? It was a little spicy for me, but David _loved_ it.”

Pat nods and rubs his hands together. He hadn’t thought about Jonny’s family staying in Jonny’s apartment. _Shit_. His stuff is all over the place. He stays there almost every night, so he’s got clothes in Jonny’s closet and food in his fridge and, Pat thinks, maybe even a book or two beside his bed or on his coffee table.

He can’t imagine what they must think. Well, he can imagine, but he doesn’t want to.

He decides he needs to find Jonny. Maybe they can do some damage control. Pat scans the room and his eyes land on Jonny lounging near the dart board. He’s losing to Stalberg, and badly, so Pat’s certain he’ll welcome a distraction.

To Andrée, he says, “I’ve got to talk to Jonny about something, real quick.”

She laughs, “Go on, but you’re invited to dinner tonight. I’m leaving here to cook in the next twenty minutes or so. I’d love your help.”

“Um,” Pat says. He’d like to help her cook. And he’s itching to get back to Jonny’s place, to cover up all the incriminating evidence. Last time he’d been over, they’d left the lube out on the bathroom counter and Jonny never, _never,_ cleans properly. But also, Pat’s not sure he can handle two hours of Andree’s knowing gaze following him.

When he reaches Jonny, he pokes him in the shoulder, “Hey, bro. Can we talk?”

Jonny glares at him. “We are talking, dipshit.”

Pat steps closer and says, as quietly as he can manage, “I was thinking about all my stuff in your apartment. That’s weird for your family, huh?”

Jonny says, too loudly as far as Pat’s concerned, “My parents aren’t going through my stuff, like, looking for signs that I have a secret boyfriend or anything. Chill out. Are you coming for dinner?”

 _Secret boyfriend._ He’s pretty sure that Jonny has just referred to him as his _secret boyfriend._  Pat’s stomach is fluttering and, suddenly, he can’t stop himself from grinning. He knows he probably looks obnoxious, his little kid smile with teeth and dimples and shit. But, like, _boyfriend_!

Jonny says, “Hey, Pat. I just asked if you were planning to come over for dinner."

Pat looks around the room. Most of his crew has peaced out, having made other plans to watch the game later.  “Think I might go back and help your mom cook.”

Jonny laughs. “Seriously? And you’re worried about her finding your toothbrush?”

Shit, yeah, maybe it would be weird for him to help Jonny’s mom. Normal bros probably don’t cook with their friend’s parents. _Boyfriends_ might, though.

Stalsy moves toward them to say, “Forfeiting?”

“Fuck off, Pat, I need to concentrate,” Jonny tells him, taking aim.

Pat should probably stick around. He doesn’t want anyone to start _wondering_ about him and Jonny and Jonny’s family.

He says, “I’ll play winner.”

If there’s one thing Pat’s good at (aside from fucking hockey, baby) it’s bar games. Darts, pool, punch the machine, he kills at all of these things. He’s better at them than cooking and, apparently, according to his _boyfriend_ ’s mother, that’s saying something.

 

 

Pat thinks about Jonny’s late night confession a lot.

They haven’t fucked, like with dicks in asses, not yet. Pat’s been hesitant, flat out avoiding it, really, partly because that shit’s super gay and partly because, like, that’s it, _the_ sin, right? He very specifically remembers a fumbling religious ed teacher talking about it, once, saying that gay feelings weren’t the problem. No, _sodomy_ was the problem.

And then there’s the health concerns. Like, from the carefully chosen man on woman porn with anal that he’s downloaded, it seems like a good and proper dicking could hurt, as in cause a very specific strain. He has no intention of explaining why he can’t quite walk right to his trainer, not when the answer is that he’s just been boned hardcore by Jonny.

Jonny doesn’t bring it up again either, not right away, at least.

~

In late January, a beauty of a point streak gets blown to bits by the Preds who win two against them, cleanly and back-to-back. Now, they’ve got a week off at home, with no games and several optional skates, and Pat decides it’s time to do the thing.

Jonny, however, doesn’t seem to be picking up what he’s putting down. He climbs into bed as soon as they get home from the UC, without eating, without watching replays, without saying a word to Pat, not even good night.

Losses like this usually make Jonny angry and determined. And that Pat can deal with. Actually, he finds it motivating. (Also, all the shit Sharpy gives Jonny for his palpable frustration is hilarious, never failing to cheer Pat out of his own loss induced stupor.) But this morose, anti-social Jonny is something new and it makes Pat nervous.

Jonny’d taken some pretty rough hits lately. Maybe the docs had missed something. As soon as he thinks it, he knows it’s crap. Jonny’s so careful about that kind of thing. Hell, he gives Pat shit for playing on injuries all the time.

But, still.

~

Jonny is feeling much better the next morning, or, at least, Pat assumes he must be because he’s up and out of the apartment before Pat wakes up. Pat finds a note on the kitchen counter saying that Jonny’s meeting with his trainer to go over game tape from the back-to-back.

Pat texts him that he’s meeting with his trainer, too, but that he might skip out on the extra ice time, give his knees a rest.

A few minutes later he receives in return a smiley face and then a _whats for dinner?_

Pat’s just woken up and Jonny wants to know what’s for dinner? He’s an ungrateful shit who should learn to cook for himself. Pat texts back _a surprise._

And then, because he can’t resist, he adds _and my dick_

Pat considers the conversation on his phone. Jonny wants him to do dinner? He’ll give him a goddamned dinner. Tonight should be _the_ night. There’s not even an optional skate scheduled for the next day so they can do it right, go all the fucking way- fancy pasta and red wine and candles and flowers and ass-fucking- the whole goddamn nine yards.

Later, in the locker room, Sharpy catches him winking at Jonny. He says, “Woah, buddies. Cool it down in here.”

And Pat, feeling so fucking full of it, chirps back, “You’re just jealous of the proper dicking Jonny’s going to be getting from me tonight.”

Jonny’s eyes go wide. And Pat can admit that it’s a little reckless, saying shit like that when it’s so close to the truth.

Jonny turns back toward his gear, but he says, angry and loud enough for both Pat and Sharpy to hear, “You wish, man. I’m gonna give it to _you_ so hard you won’t be able to walk later.”

 Sharpy bursts out laughing. Coach Q, who’s standing nearby talking to one of the trainers, has apparently overheard the whole conversation because he says, “Oh, Jonny-boy, all that pent up aggression. You _do_ need to get laid more often.”

Pat can’t respond. He’s too busy dealing with the rush of blood that’s gone straight to his dick. They’re really gonna do this. _Tonight._ Fuck, yeah.

 

 

Dinner doesn’t go exactly as planned. Pat’s nerves are going haywire. First, he’s so eager to get in and out that he forgets to grab parmesan cheese from the grocery store. Then, his wrist shakes when he goes to strain the noodles and he douses his arm with a splash of boiling hot water. And finally, in his enthusiasm to open the fucking bag, he spills frozen peas all over the floor of Jonny’s kitchen.

Jonny’s incredibly patient, though, and doesn’t even whine when Pat sets the meal out an hour later than they’d originally planned. Jonny’s been sleeping most of the afternoon. Actually, his naps have gotten longer and more frequent, in the last couple of weeks and Pat’s worried that maybe he’s coming down with something. It’s happened to Pat like that before. He’ll be super tired for several days in a row and then wake up one morning feeling like he’s been run over by a truck.

The meal would have been better coated in parmesan and with a higher pea to noodle ratio, but it’s still good. Pat has managed to light a couple candles without setting anything on fire. When Jonny walked into the dining room, Pat’d been setting his iPhone in the dock, ready to play some Marvin Gaye, but Jonny had stopped him. So now, instead of classic baby-making music, they are listening to some Canadian indie country bullshit. But, hey, if that’s what gets Jonny going, Pat isn’t going to complain.

~

Pat sits at the counter and watches as Jonny does the dishes. He smiling and humming along to whatever shit is playing on his iPhone. It’s just like any other night, except for it’s not, not at all.

Jonny’s taking his time, washing out waterbottles that could have gone through the dishwasher and wiping down the counters two and then three times. Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all, not with the two of them both so nervous about it.

“Jonny,” Pat says, as Jonny reaches over to wipe down the stove for the fourth time. “Do you…?” He lets the question hang because he’s not sure how he wants to finish it. He’s not sure about the framing, whether he wants to ask if Jonny’s up for this or if he’d rather suggest they put it off.

Jonny meets his eyes. His jaw is set, like it gets when he decides he’s going to make particularly dangerous or challenging play. Pat fucking loves that look. It almost always turns him on, just a little bit.

“Let’s do this,” Jonny says.

~

Pat walks into the bathroom and cleans himself up.  Yeah, Jonny’s fingered him before, a lot, and even, a few times, rimmed him. Still, Pat’s a little nervous about shitting all over Jonny’s dick or something.

Jonny’s read up on this, though, at least that’s what he’d said before he put his mouth on Pat’s asshole for the first time, and he’d told Pat to chill out about everything.

When he reenters the bedroom, Jonny’s naked, of course he is, and he’s got a whole assortment of sex shit spread out on his bed: condoms (why does he have six?), a huge-ass bottle of lube, and several dildos of varying sizes (there’s a black one that’s definitely a hell of a lot larger than Jonny’s dick and Pat sort of wonders what that’s all about).

When Jonny looks up at Pat, he’s clearly incredibly determined, his jaw set even more stubbornly than it was in the kitchen, as if he’s daring Pat to say one word about how much thought he’s obviously put into this. Pat’s chest clenches and his own uncertainty melts away. He wants this so badly, and he wants it with Jonny.

Jonny’s the perfect person for him to try _this_ with. Actually, Pat can’t imagine allowing anyone else to fuck him, ever.

Finally, Jonny says, “I want you, like right fucking now. But we have to…” He trails off, gesturing to the accessories covering their bed.

Pat turns his back to Jonny and shakes his ass. “Let’s get me ready, baby, because, hell, yeah, I want you inside me!”

Jonny smiles, but it’s a tight smile. Jonny’s hands shake as they reach for the lube, so Pat pushes the bottle back onto the bed and kisses him. Jonny freezes for a moment and then settles into it, kissing Pat back.

They fall onto the bed, side by side, just kissing, soft and tender. Jonny keeps trying to pick up the pace, sticking his tongue into Pat’s mouth and running his hands up and down Pat’s body, and Pat keeps slowing him down, pulling away, kissing him chastely and gently pinning his hands at his sides. Eventually, Jonny allows it and his breathing evens.

It’s different, this kissing, than usual, not that they never kiss or anything, but their kisses are usually either short and sweet, for greetings and goodnights, or hard and invasive, with an obvious endgame.

After a few minutes, Pat lets go of Jonny’s arms and allows his own hands to make their way up and down Jonny’s back and, then, over his ass. Jonny grabs at Pat’s hips, pulling them closer together, so their cocks brush.

Jonny pulls back from the kiss to mouth at Pat’s ear, “Fuck, Pat. I really, really want you.”

Pat latches his teeth onto Jonny’s neck and hums what he hopes is an affirmative.

Jonny’s hands wander to Pat’s waist and then down further to settle with a finger pressing in against Pat’s hole. He asks, “Is this okay?”

“Jonny,” Pat says, arching against him. “Please.”

Jonny finds the lube, quickly, and opens him up, one finger at a time. It’s an act he’s performed time and time again on Pat over the last few months, but his hands are trembling a little.

Pat moans, a little more dramatically than is probably necessary and says, “Feels good, Jonny. Want you in me so fucking bad.”

At his words, Jonny fingers stutter inside Pat and brush against his prostate. This time, the loud cry Pat lets out is not exaggerated at all.

“Like that?” Jonny asks. He takes entirely too much pleasure in turning Pat into an incoherent mess and Pat would get more upset at Jonny’s cocky grin, if he could think or talk straight.

Pat does manage to get out a strangled, “Fuck you.” But he’s pushing back onto Jonny’s fingers, so he doesn’t think it has quite the effect he would like it to.

Jonny picks up one of the dildos. It’s small, smaller around than the fingers he just pulled out of Pat’s ass.

Pat says, “No, just do it, Jonny. I want to feel _you._ ”

Jonny lines up the dildo and says, “We should be careful, you know. I don’t want to mess you up.”

Pat frowns at him. As far as he’s concerned a few minutes of hardcore fingering is careful enough.

“Seriously, Pat. I really want this, to be inside you or whatever. But it’s more important to me that we don’t mess you up. I want you safe.”

Jonny looks so earnest, his eyes impossibly wide, his frown deep. He’s got sweat dripping down his brow and neck and, Pat thinks, it’s not even that hot in here.

Pat says, “I’ll tell you if it hurts. I just, I’m ready for you.”

Jonny’s frown deepens. “I’ve got all these dildos. I made up a fake name to buy them and everything.”

Pat laughs. “I’m sure we’ll make good use of them, later though.” He reaches out to give Jonny’s cock a squeeze and finds it only half-hard.

Jonny winces and frowns. Pat tries not to wonder what’s going on with him and instead puts his oh so soft and talented hands to work. When Jonny’s ready, fully hard again, he says, “Pat, we should do this with you on your hands and knees. That’s what’ll be best for both of us.”

Pat nods. It’s not really the position he would prefer, not with Jonny looking so uncertain, so fucking worried, but he knows that Jonny’s probably right. He’s probably researched this, and Pat _does_ care about the state his body will be in tomorrow.

Jonny’s hands are still shaking as he tries to open the condom packet and, eventually, Pat turns around and takes it from him. As he rips it open, he says, “You sure about this, man? We don’t have to.”

Jonny meets his eyes and swallows. Voice hoarse, he says, “You want this, right?”

Pat nods.

“Then I do, too,” Jonny affirms and slides the condom on.

He enters Pat slowly and that’s good, but it’s also painful. Pat immediately thinks that maybe he should have let Jonny go ahead with the dildos. Once he’s most of the way in, Jonny stills and lets them settle together.

Pat feels Jonny’s heavy breathing against his back and it’s oddly calming. After a minute or two or maybe several hours, Pat decides that he likes the feeling of Jonny inside him, that he could maybe get used it.

The silence between them is uncomfortable. And Pat realizes that this is one of the things that’s felt so off about the whole encounter. Usually, Jonny’s such a raunchy chatterbox, shooting off a constant stream of terrible and fucking arousing dirty talk.

Maybe, Pat thinks, maybe if Jonny starts to talk, he’ll be able to relax. So Pat says, “You’re awfully quiet back there, do I feel like shit inside or something?” He squeezes his muscles around Jonny and it hurts, sort of, but it’s worth the gasp he receives in return.

“Fuck, no, Pat, you feel so fucking good,” Jonny says, but he doesn’t continue, just keeps still for another moment or two.

Pat says, “Are you going to fuck me or what?” Because he’s getting tired of waiting and maybe Jonny moving will feel better than Jonny just sitting there, so fucking still. Maybe Jonny will find Pat’s prostate with his dick. That’d be nice.

Eventually, Jonny does begin to move, slowly, too slowly for Pat’s liking, so Pat tries to help and, after several awkward thrusts, they begin to find a rhythm that _works_.

Actually, it more than works, because, by some miracle, Jonny’s dick _is_ brushing Pat’s hot spot just enough that his cock stiffens all the way. Pat reaches for it and finds it already leaking.

Jonny says, “This good?” He wraps one arm around Pat’s middle and Pat notes that he’s still fucking shaking.

“Yeah, Jonny,” Pat says, trying to sound reassuring. “So fucking good.”

Jonny moans and picks up his pace. Pat follows suit with the hand on his dick, speeding up and tightening.  Soon, too soon, he’s coming all over his stomach and the sheets.

Jonny pauses for a moment, after Pat comes. 

But then he starts up again. Jonny’s moving in and against him, and his dick keeps brushing up against Pat’s prostate, sending spasms up Pat’s spine.

Pat tries tightening his ass muscles again, but the movement is a lot more painful this time, now that’s he’s come, and he’s starting to feel a little too sensitive all over. “Jonny, what do you need, man? You want it faster or, like, to try another position?” Pat’s not sure he could actually manage either of those things right now, but he really needs Jonny to come.

Jonny slows and kisses Pat’s back, wet and open mouthed. He says, “I’m sorry, Pat. I don’t think I’m gonna come.”

Pat’s stomach tightens. Maybe he was shit at this. Maybe Jonny likes vag better than ass, after all. Or maybe Pat’s ass just wasn’t…

Jonny says, “I’m gonna pull out. I’ve read that it might feel weird and uncomfortable, so.”

It does feel weird and uncomfortable, but not nearly as weird and uncomfortable as the fact that Jonny’s almost soft. Pat says, “Do you want me to suck you off? Or like to jerk you off so that you come on my stomach or something?”

Jonny rolls away from him and goes into the bathroom to discard the (empty) condom. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry Pat. I think I was just, like, worried about you. And tired, or something. “

He returns with a towel to clean up Pat and the sheets and Pat takes it out of his hands. Jonny lies and on his back, cock now limp between his legs.

“You’re being weird,” Pat says and when Jonny winces and closes his eyes, he thinks the better of it. But Jonny _is_ being weird. And Pat feels empty now that Jonny’s cock’s gone and, for some reason, also incredibly lonely. He’s the one that just got fucked, for fuck’s sake.

Jonny turns over on his side to face Pat. He says, “I’m sorry. I really failed at that.”

Pat says, “What the fuck? I came. It was awesome for me. I’m the one that fucked up, apparently.” Pat says it, but he doesn’t really believe it. He’d offered his virgin ass up to Jonny, what the hell more could he have done?

“No, Pat, you’re great. You did really good. Look, I just want to sleep, okay? I’m pretty tired. Actually, I’ve got a bad headache.”

Jonny reaches to turn off the light and, after what can’t be more than five minutes or so, Pat hears Jonny’s breathing even out. Pat lies awake for a long time, though, tossing and turning, ass aching. This had, apparently, been a terrible idea. Maybe he should have fucking listened to his religious ed teacher’s warnings about sodomy.

 

 

For the next couple weeks things are strained between Pat and Jonny. They don’t break up, exactly. The team begins one of their longest roadtrips of the season and Pat still spends most nights in Jonny’s bed.

At first, once he’s done feeling sorry for himself (which happens only after his ass stops hurting), Pat gets really fucking mad at Jonny. But, when Pat rips Jonny’s head off over all kinds of random shit, shitty plays (he’s been making a great deal of those lately) and messes around their room, Jonny doesn’t bite back. Actually, he starts apologizing.

And that’s so incredibly out of character that Pat decides he needs to start cataloging all of Jonny’s recent weirdness so that maybe can figure out what’s wrong and get some of the guys (and/or maybe Andrée) to help stage an intervention.

It could be depression, Pat decides. They’re losing every goddamn game and Jonny’s shitty playing is doing nothing to help. He probably blames himself and is locking his soul up in a dark cellar as punishment.

The last night of the roadtrip, Pat goes out with guys, nowhere fancy and not too late. Jonny declines the invitation. He’s been doing that a hell of lot lately. Sharpy corners Pat and asks what the fuck’s Jonny’s deal. When Pat flounders for answer, Sharpy hugs him and whispers, “Pat, make sure he’s not being too stupid.”

On the walk back from the bar, Pat decides that Sharpy’s right. They have been pretty goddamned stupid, him and Jonny, both. And maybe, fuck, maybe _God_ is punishing them. Maybe they pushed this thing to goddamned far.

Yeah, the more he thinks about it, the more sense it makes. If they want everything to get better, they need to stop pretending to be boyfriends. They need to stop with all the sex. Maybe, even, they need to stop being friends. _Shit._  

Pat doesn’t want to stop. Most of his stuff’s at Jonny’s place and they room together on the road and they play on the same team, often on the same line. Their lives are so intertwined that Pat doesn’t know if it’s going to be possible for him to disentangle himself from this mess they’re in.

When he gets back to the room, his cheeks are wet, not because it’s raining, though it fucking is, but because he’s crying like a fucking girl. Usually, he’s not that embarrassed by his feelings and the way they’re always right there on his face, but right now, these fucking tears are really the icing on the cake. He opens the door, trying to decide how talk to Jonny about this, how to really break it off.

But as soon as he’s inside the hotel room, he hears loud wretching chokes from the bathroom. He knocks on the door. “You okay, Jonny?”

Jonny coughs. “What the fuck does it sound like?” His voice comes out raw, like maybe this puking business has been going on for a while, and Pat’s own stomach turns over.

“Can I come in?” He doesn’t really want to, but, also, Jonny might be really messed up.

Jonny replies immediately. “Sure, yeah.”

Jonny’s in his boxer briefs, face pressed against the white, porcelain base of the toilet. He looks pale and worn.

“What the hell? Are you sick? Something not sit right with you?”

Jonny shakes his head, “No, I didn’t really eat much at dinner.”

Pat squats down next to him and feels his forehead. “Why not? Stomach already bothering you?”

Jonny says, “No appetite.”

“You’ve lost some weight over the last month or so, Jonny. You have to eat more. You cannot afford to skip meals,” Pat tells him. He’s panicking because he can see it now, suddenly, what’s been going on for weeks, for almost a month, now, maybe, and he feels so fucking stupid.

“Thank you, Mom,” Jonny says, dryly. And, thank fuck, he hasn’t lost his (terrible) sense of humor.

Pat’s been so caught up in all this relationship bullshit that he hadn’t picked up on all the signs. “Jonny, you have to see your trainer tomorrow. You have to tell them about this.”

Jonny glares at him. “It’s fine. It’s really fine.”

Pat’s eyes widen. “Do you have a death wish or something? Playing like this could literally fucking kill you. You fucktard. Don’t do this.”

Jonny wretches again, into the toilet, but nothing comes up.

“Oh my god,” Pat says. “This is so bad. You’re so stupid.”

Jonny says, “You can’t tell me what to do with my body. It’s mine.”

Pat’s crying again. He says, “You’re being irrational. Why the hell are you being irrational about this? Oh wait, maybe because that’s just another symptom of a really fucking bad concussion. Holy shit, you dumbass.”

Jonny says, “Fine, I’ll tell them.”

And Pat can feel himself relax. “You fucking better, you shithead.”

~

Jonny dresses for the next game and Pat feels like he could literally fucking kill him. Except for the fact that he’s trying to prevent his untimely death. Goddamnit.

He doesn’t want to disrespect Jonny’s wishes. They’re on pretty shaky ground as it is, so, at first, he doesn’t say anything.

But then, when, at the beginning of the third, they lose out on a beauty of a chance because Jonny blows an easy pass, Pat can’t stop himself.

As soon as they’re back on the bench, he leans over Sharpy to shout, “Fucking hell, Jonny. I can’t fucking believe you. We missed that chance because of your shitty play. If anyone else had been out there, they could have made that pass. Fuck. You need to get the hell back into the locker and tell fucking someone else about your goddamn concussion because, at this point, you’re not only putting yourself at risk, you’re also blowing shit for the whole goddamn lot of us, you selfish, prideful sonofabitch.”

Sharpy freezes, but no one else seems to notice, because a penalty’s just been called. Jonny’s got his head in hands, but he lifts it to shout, “Shut the fuck up, Pat. I’m fine.”

Pat drops it. Sharpy doesn’t.

After the game, Sharpy brings one of the team docs over to Jonny’s stall, just as the press walks away.

“Jonathan,” the doc says. “Sharp tells me you might be suffering from some concussion-like symptoms. Do you mind if we go into one of the offices and do a little check-in?”

Jonny doesn’t look at the doctor and doesn’t look at Sharpy; he looks at Pat, who’s watching from a couple of stalls away, and sends him this wide-eyed stare, clearly betrayed. Still, he follows the doctor out of the room and Pat lets out a breath. Thank fuck. No, thank fucking God.

~

Pat doesn’t go to Jonny’s that night, after the game. He goes to his own apartment. He hasn’t slept in his own bed, alone, since December.

Before crawling under the covers, Patrick gets down on his knees, places his folded hands on top of the mattress, bows his head and prays. He thanks God that Jonny’s getting this taken care of before dying out on the ice or some shit like that. And then he prays for God to make Jonny better soon. He prays that maybe he’s overreacting and maybe Jonny’s really okay.

In bed, he still feels restless, sick, like maybe he’s the one with the concussion. He pulls his rosary out of the drawer next to his bed. He remembers how Jonny had reacted to beads, how he’d called Pat a poser. Maybe he was right. Maybe Pat needs to ask for forgiveness, get himself back in God’s good graces. He remembers, suddenly, that before discovering Jonny’s concussion he’d been about to break it off and, yeah, that’s what he’s got to do.

Pat texts Jonny the next day to see how he is and Jonny texts back immediately. They think it’s a mild concussion from a hit in the last game and they’ve put him on day-to-day.

Pat replies _bullshit._

He doesn’t understand how Jonny, who’s so smart, so good with all the other guys, so insistent that Pat take better care of himself, he doesn’t understand how  Captain fucking Serious, can be so stupid about this.

Pat does some research and finds a midweek Mass to attend. He’s going to be a better Catholic. He really, really is. Wednesday night, he sits quietly in his pew and listens.  He doesn’t follow too closely, just lets the service roll over him and tries to let go of his anger at Jonny. Something about the procession or the ritual of receiving the host sits peacefully with Pat. Kneeling, head bowed, he feels like something’s clicking, like everything might turn out okay after all.

Pat sleeps well that night, with a plan to confront Jonny in the morning. He needs to get Jonny to be honest with the doctors about how long this has been going on and about how serious the symptoms have been. And he needs for them to stop acting like boyfriends, cleanly and officially.

~

He arrives early to morning skate, hoping to catch Jonny before practice. He’d rather carry out at least the first part of his plan in the locker room, where other people, like Sharpy, might overhear. But Jonny’s not there yet and nobody’s heard from him.

Pat texts him and then takes his phone with him into the weight room. Jonny’s always painfully punctual. Worry settles low in Pat’s belly and he tries to run it off on the treadmill.

His phone pings and Pat immediately straddles the belt and picks it up. The text from Jonny reads, _In an accident dont worry I’m good._

Pat’s off the treadmill and heading to the admin offices before he even realizes what he’s doing, but, when he gets there, they’ve already heard the news. _Fuck this,_ Pat thinks and walks right up to Coach Q who’s deep in conversation with a couple PR folks.  Pat says, “Jonny has a concussion. He’s had it since probably, like, the middle of January. It’s bad. That’s why he got in accident. That’s why he’s been playing like shit. He needs to go on IR and get help.”

Coach Q looks at him, eyes wide with apparent surprise, and, yeah, it’s really out of character for Pat to speak up like this, but, _shit_ , Jonny’s in _trouble._

Q says, mustache quivering, “What the fuck? Since the middle of January? Why the hell didn’t you tell me this earlier, Kaner? Jonny could have _died_.”

Pat shakes his head. Coach’s right. He doesn’t know what the hell he was doing keeping Jonny’s secret. He says, “I didn’t realize it until a week ago.”

Coach shakes his head. “Fucking hell, Kaner. You wait until he gets in a fucking car accident to bring this up. I cannot fucking believe you boys.”

Pat’s never seen Coach Q this livid before. And he’s right to be. Fuck, this is all Pat’s fault. If he hadn’t been so caught up in figuring out this feelings shit, in throwing himself a pity party over bad sex, in hiding the fact that he and Jonny were on the outs, he might have figured out what was going on earlier. He might have been able to prevent things from getting this bad.

What if Jonny’s brain is bleeding? What if he turns suicidal? What if he starts to lose his memory, permanently?

All the praying Pat’d done over the last few days, all the promises to turn himself around, none of it mattered. God was clearly through with Pat’s bullshit. He’d fucking blown it. And he and Jonny were both probably going to pay for it for the rest of their goddamned lives.

Pat swallows and licks his lips. “I’m sorry, Coach Q. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll make it up to you.”

Coach shakes his head, “You’d better, Kaner, you’d fucking better. We’re going to be out a leader and a center on this team, maybe for quite some time if you’re right about this, and someone’s going to have to step up.”

He turns away from Pat and back to the PR people with another head shake and a soft, “Fuck.”  

~

Pat tries to step up. He tries to play better. He tries to be a leader in the locker room. But without Jonny, everything sucks.

He constantly feels as though he’s fresh off a shift. He never quite catches his breath and he’s never quite able to mentally regroup before the press or Coach or his parents are after him again.

He never breaks it off with Jonny, not with words like he knows he should, but after the accident, Jonny stops texting and calling. Pat stops visiting. They’re cordial when they have to be around each other. But Jonny’s mad at Pat out of what Pat thinks is an extremely misguided sense of betrayal and Pat’s mad at Jonny for being such a dumbass.

Anyway, Pat needed to end things, so allowing all that bitterness to fester makes sense.

 

 

When he reflects back, this was when it started, his dark, downward spiral. Sure, he’s always been known to throw back a drink or fifteen. Sure, he’s always loved (not really) a drunken hook-up. And, sure, he’s always been cautioned about the outcomes of his drunken shenanigans. But it’s never been a _problem_.

So when a couple of nights of partying a week turns into a couple of nights of _not_ partying a week turns into partying every night of the week, nobody really notices, not at first.

He tells himself that he needs the release because of all the extra pressure on him with Jonny out. He tells himself that while he may be engaging in frequent and promiscuous sex, at least it’s not sodomy. He tells himself that it’s not affecting his game, that he’s no better or worse out on the ice than he was before, than he was when he was with Jonny.

~

At the end of March, he and Sharpy are out for breakfast and Sharpy says, “I heard they’re going to put Jonny back in for the playoffs.”

Pat looks up from his eggs and tries to mask his surprise.

“You’re still not talking to him,” Sharpy says.  “Why?”

Pat shrugs and, fuck, he wants to tell Sharpy everything. He always wants to tell Sharpy everything, but, now that it’s over, that sort of confession is definitely not worth it.

They eat quietly for a few minutes. Pat says, “How’s Abby and Madelyn?”

Sharpy shakes his head. “You know how they’re doing. You stalk them on Facebook. I see your ‘likes’ on every picture, you fucking creeper. Anyway, we’re talking about you, this morning.”

Pat decides he needs more sugar in his coffee. “I’m great, perfect, always the same,” he tells Sharpy. 

“You’ve been going out a lot lately,” Sharpy says.

And that’s something Pat really, really does not want to talk about, but partying is a salvageable conversation topic, in general. “And you never come out anymore, Papa Sharp.”

“Did your girlfriend break up with you or something? That on top of all this bullshit with Jonny and I can see why you’d be feeling pretty shitty,” Sharpy speaks this softly, sounding so fucking understanding.

But he really, really doesn’t understand.

Pat says, “Yeah, it’s over between us, but it was my choice. She really wasn’t good for me.” And, as true as Pat knows it is, the words feel wrong on his tongue. He had been _happier_ with Jonny, happier than he is now, at least.

Sharpy tilts his head, “Sorry, man. That’s sucks.”

Pat nods and takes another gulp of coffee. “Yeah, whatever. I’m sure it’ll get better.”

Sharpy reaches across the table and lays a hand on Pat’s wrist. He says, “It’s just, Pat, be careful. The tabloids, the organization, the fans, with your reputation, they’re _waiting_ for you to screw up. I worry about you, especially without Jonny watching your back these days.”

Pat pulls away. “I don’t need another parent. I already have two, thanks.”

Looking out the window with a shake of his head, Sharpy says, “Sorry, man, but it had to be said.”

Pat disagrees. He can do what he wants and no one can tell him otherwise, not when they don’t know shit about his life.

~

The playoffs blow ass.

The organization risks Jonny’s goddamn life by playing him too early. He and Pat don’t really talk, except for when they’re out on the ice together. Jonny looks happy skating, but also worn and frustrated, probably because he’s feeling and playing like he hasn’t been on skates in months.

The worst of it is that now that he’s seeing Jonny again everyday, Pat has to admit to himself that he still _wants_ him. Pat still wants Jonny. He wants to hug him. He wants to follow him home and make sure he’s eating. He wants to beat his ass at stupid video games. He wants to be fucked by him and then he wants to fall asleep beside him. These _wants_ haven’t lessened, not at all, not one of them.

 

 

Pat can’t carry the team on his back, no matter how hard he tries. And he does try.

Pat watches Sharpy watch Pat come to practice during the goddamn playoffs hung-over a total of three times. He’s got this awful frown on his lips.

And then they’re out of the game again, in the first round, again.

Pat finishes the season ready to escape.

So, when he gets the text inviting him to Madison, of course, he goes. Of course, he gets blitzed out of his mind. Of course, he makes a whole shitload of drunken mistakes that he knows better than to make.

 

 

The Blackhawks don’t trade Pat, not right away, and his parents don’t disown him, but, as he reads through his press (a self-imposed punishment), he’s surprised at his luck in both regards.

He’s made a fucking mess. He _is_ a fucking mess.

When he returns to Buffalo, his parents take him out to brunch. They want to _talk_ , so Pat lets them. The gist of their “conversation” is this: they love him; they’re disappointed in him; they’re worried about him; they want to know what’s going on in his life that he’s lost himself so thoroughly.

Pat doesn’t know what to say to them, except to apologize and to promise that he’ll get his act together, but even as he makes the promise, he aches because he has no idea how to keep it.

Erica spends the first week he’s back shooting him these pitying looks and begging him to tell her everything. He wonders if she’s talked to Jonny. He thinks she probably has and that makes talking to her both incredibly tempting and probably a terrible idea, especially if he really wants to keep _things_ closed with Jonny.

Jackie’s acting afraid of him, like she believes the newsmedia’s portrayal of Pat is accurate, more accurate even than any memories, than any relationship they’ve had over the years. He hates it, but he can’t seem to change it. He can’t even sit down beside her because the moment he does, she’s up and gone.

But it’s Jess’s reaction that’s the most surprising: it seems she’s decided to befriend him. And, unlike Erica, she’s appears to have little interest in getting him to talk, not about anything important, at least. Instead, she keeps inviting him to do stuff with her, to run and shop and bake.

They’ve never been close because Jess is the _good girl_. She’s never had patience for Pat and Erica’s pranks and parties and general shenanigans. Instead, she’s always busied herself making perfect grades, attracting perfectly groomed, equally goodie-goodie boyfriends, and, honest to God, doing community service, like, for fun in her fucking free time.

Still, Pat’s extremely grateful for her sudden friendship those first couple weeks he’s back, however totally out of character it may be. Pat had expected she’d be the one judging him the hardest.

The second Wednesday he’s home, she texts him to meet her for ice cream on the lakefront after her shift’s over at the library where she’s interning this summer. When he shows up, she’s not alone. She’s got two boys and a girl, probably all right around her age in tow and they’re sitting at a table, ice creams already in hand. 

He considers texting her his regrets. He’s not really ready to confront people, not people that might know about his mess of a life, not yet. But Jess sees him in his car, wavering, and gestures him over.

As soon as he reaches the table, she pulls out a chair for him. “These are my friends from church,” she explains.  “Jeff, Chris, and Amy.”

Pat smiles at them and, then, turns to Jess, “I didn’t realize you were going to church. I thought you weren’t really happy with Mom and Dad’s parish.”

Jess laughs. “Yeah, no. I definitely don’t like it there. It’s like, it’s like not even really Christian. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe it’s great for them, but it’s not for me. I met these guys through Campus Crusade.”

“Catholics are definitely not Christian,” says one of the guys, Jeff, Pat thinks, his voice ringing with authority. It kind of pisses Pat off, but then the guy licks his ice cream and smiles broadly, making him seem a like a little less of an asshole.

Amy laughs, “I don’t know, but I think it’s great that you were raised with religion at all. Like, I’d never been to church, except for my grandma’s funeral, before Campus Crusade.” She has a lovely smile and she meets Pat’s eyes with a shyness that’s refreshing. The look she gives him from under her eyelashes doesn’t feel coy or seductive. Pat thinks that maybe she’s genuinely uncertain how he’ll receive her.

“Yeah, church is pretty cool,” Pat says, knowing, even as he says it, that he sounds dumb as shit.

“You should come with us!” Jess says. “We’re all going to worship together tonight. It’s gonna be awesome because Damon is giving the message.” 

Jeff throws his balled-up napkin at a trashcan several yards away. He makes it and proceeds to jump around his chair in a cellie worthy of a game-winning goal. Pat decides he likes him, probably.

When Jeff sits back down he turns to Pat and says with a smile, “Seriously, dude, you seem cool. And Damon’s got a really powerful story. You’d probably really connect.”

And Pat can’t think of a good reason to turn them down. Jess has been so awesome to him since he’s been home and her friends seem incredibly kind, if a little awkward and dorky. Nice, _good_ , people and church might be just the thing.

“What do you think?” Amy prompts. “Do you have time to come?” She’s smiling at him again, this time bright and direct. He can’t help but nod and smile back.

~

The small auditorium is packed, probably close to a hundred people in all and Jess seems to know a whole hell of a lot of them. A band is on stage warming up.

Pat has known that this kind of church exists, but, honestly, they’ve always seemed kind lame and showy-offy to him. And it’s not like he’d had time to ever really check one out. He doesn’t even have time for Mass.

Jess introduces him to one smiling face after another. They all clasp his hand warmly and welcome him. One tiny, but very pregnant, woman even gives him an incredibly awkward hug. A few people recognize him- he can usually tell- but only a few, and no one asks for his autograph or heckles him, not like people had at the grocery store last week.

The music is catchy, words scrolling behind the band on a big drop down screen. Still, Pat feels out of place, like he might be the only person who doesn’t know the song. And he totally doesn’t understand all the closed eyed, arm-raised, swaying that’s happening. It’s fucking weird.

Seriously, this shit is nothing like Mass. There’s no priest and no cantor and no Eucharist and no crossing himself or kneeling.

Damon is the drummer in the band and he’s wearing a Bieber swoop and skinny jeans. Pat thinks he’s probably a little older than most of the people gathered, maybe in his mid-thirties. He takes the mic and walks to center stage with a grace Pat, as an athlete, can’t help but admire. And, yeah, it’s totally his athletic mind noting the slope of this dude’s shoulders and the curve of his ass.

Before Damon speaks, he frowns. Then, he says, “I wasn’t always a Christian. Oh, I thought I was, I’d have marked it on a survey if asked, but I wasn’t. In fact, before I turned twenty-five, I didn’t have a relationship with Jesus at all. And not just because I’d never studied the Word or spoken to Him on my own. I wasn’t living right.”

The guy proceeds to describe his early, restless life. He talks about not being able to hold down a job, probably because of the partying and the women and booze and drugs. He talks about being kicked out of his parents’ home and trying to make it on the streets, about couch hopping between friends and about sleeping in the back end of his pick-up truck.

He talks about the night his “girlfriend” caught him hooking up with her best friend at a party, how she’d run out and he’d chased her down the street, shouting at her out the driver’s side window of his Ford, not even considering the amount of alcohol in his system. He’d hit a mini-van with a family of young children inside on the way home from their grandparents.

That was rock bottom for him, he explains, when he watched those little kids rushed off to the hospital on stretchers. He says, in that moment and days that followed, he’d hated himself. He’d hated the mess he’d made. He’d hated that he’d destroyed every meaningful relationship in his life. He’d hated the fact that the only way he knew how to cope was to turn back to the same bottle of liquor that had sent him spiraling downward in the first the place.

Pat listens to the story, trying desperately to ignore the tightening of his throat and the watering of his eyes. But, honestly, Pat feels as though this man knows him, as though he’s been sitting with Pat’s own thoughts and feelings in these days after Madison. So he waits, his fingers digging into his thighs, for the man to explain how he’d made the feelings go away.

Jess shifts toward him and, even in the dim light, he can see that she’s sending him a sad smile. She reaches out to squeeze his arm.

Damon continues his story. “I had a friend who was Christian, the girlfriend of a bandmate, actually, and she invited me to church. That Sunday, I was told that, through Jesus, we can always have a second chance. I was told that God loves every single one of us and wants a relationship with us, no matter how badly we’ve screwed up. I didn’t believe it, not at first. All the same, I liked hearing it, so I kept coming back to church with her, week after week. Eventually, I opened myself up, gave myself up to God, and I felt it immediately.”

He smiles widely at this and nods to the folks gathered. “You know what I’m talking about: I literally felt God’s grace taking hold of my life and making me new.

“How many of you need to be made new tonight? Think about it. Do you need Jesus’ love to re-work in you? It’s easy. All you have to do is open yourself up to God’s saving love. That’s it. If I’m talking to you, come on forward, and we’ll help you get right with God, maybe again, maybe for the first time.”

So Pat thinks about it: he thinks about whether or not he needs saving. He thinks about it while several people step forward onto the stage, to be prayed over. He thinks about it during the prayer, wondering, all the while, if what the man is praying for actually will come true. He thinks about it as they sing a final song, its lyrics proclaiming that God never gives up on anyone. He thinks about it on the drive home and as they drop off Amy, who’s been unable to stop giggling at Pat’s bad jokes. He’s still thinking about it as he lays in bed, waiting for sleep.

Maybe there’s hope for him, yet.

So he goes back, the next Wednesday and the Wednesday after that.

~

Pat doesn’t feel totally comfortable in this new church- it’s so different from what he’s used to- but the people are wonderful. They’re always hugging each other and asking after each other’s families and offering prayers over even the smallest of things. Pat likes the warmth and the casual, friendly touches. It reminds him of the locker room, in an unexpected way. It’s a community, a family.

He decides he wants the fresh start that’s on offer.

~

Before his baptism, he meets with Damon to prepare. To Pat’s surprise, Damon’s a hockey fan, loves the Sabres, and he’s followed Pat’s career closely, _hometown boy and all that._ So he knows about the end of Pat’s season. He knows about Pat’s drunken escapades.

Still, he asks Pat to tell it again, smiling warmly all the way through. Every once in a while, he gives Pat’s forearm a reassuring squeeze. At first, Pat tries to keep Jonny out of it. Perpetual drunkenness and promiscuity are bad, yeah, really bad, but Pat knows Damon’s been there, too. The whole gay thing, though, it’s a secret he still has yet to admit to anyone. Even if Erica thinks she knows, they haven’t spoken about it, not really. He and Jonny haven’t even really _talked_ about it, not outright.

But, then, Damon asks, “What did your friends think? How did they react? Like Toews, you’re close with him, right?”

Pat winces and doesn’t answer.

“Tell me,” Damon says. His smile is small and soft and Pat does. Pat tells him.

Damon’s smile doesn’t waver, not even when Pat accidentally drops the word ‘buttfucking.’ He doesn’t take his hand off Pat’s arm, either, which has Pat’s heart soaring.

That’s one of Pat’s biggest fears, the fear that if his bros knew, they wouldn’t want to _touch_ him anymore.

When he finishes, Damon says, “You’ve come to the right place. You’re doing the right thing, turning this all over to God. He’ll forgive you. He’s bigger than all your mistakes.”

Pat nods. He feels a tingly all over, sensitive, not so different from how he’d felt after Jonny fucked him.

Damon continues, “That’s one of the most powerful testimonies I’ve ever heard Pat. I hope someday you’ll be able to share it more widely. You could do so much good work for the Lord.”

Pat’s eyes widen. “I can’t. I can’t share this.”

Because he can’t. No one can know, and he’s changing, so they’ll never have to. He meets Damon’s eyes. “Damon. Please don’t tell anyone. This isn’t like, yeah. It’s in the past. I want it to stay there.”

Damon nods and says, “I’m proud of you, Pat. God’s proud of you. Shall we pray?” 

 

 

It’s cloudy and not quite 70 degrees the Sunday afternoon a week later when Pat’s baptized by Damon in the lake. It’s June, so the water’s fucking freezing and Pat comes up gasping and shivering his ass off, but, yeah, now he gets it. As the wind whips at his face and the crowd gathered sings “Amazing Grace,” he really gets it. And, for the first time in a long time, he really believes that everything is going to get better.

~

Pat’s favorite part of being  _Christian_ is praying.

Sure, he’s prayed before, but he’s never had the sense that God was listening. Now that he’s been baptized, now that he’s turned his life around, Pat knows God’s listening. He  _feels_  God listening.

Early in the summer, Pat had been lonely. He’d craved a friend, someone with whom he could be completely honest, someone who knew  _everything_ about Pat, everything about Pat and Jonny, someone he could trust, someone who wouldn’t abandon him, no matter how shitty things got.

He’s found that someone: God.

~

 

 

It isn’t until the fifth Wednesday Pat hangs out with Jess and her friends that Amy says, “I’m moving to Chicago in August. You live in Chicago, right Pat?”

Duh, Pat lives in Chicago. He’s a fucking Chicago Blackhawks starting forward. For now.

These guys haven’t really talked about Pat’s career, not specifically, but Pat’s assumed they _know_ that he’s kind of a lot famous. But now, he thinks, maybe Amy _doesn’t_ know.

So he says, “Yeah, but I travel a lot for my job.”

Jess giggles. She says, “Amy’s starting her MSW at DePaul. She wants to specialize in geriatric care.”

Pat’s not sure what that shit means, but it sounds impressive, so he nods. Amy sips at her milkshake and shrugs. “I’m not sure. That’s just where I think God’s calling me. But I’m pretty nervous about moving to such a big city.”

“I fucking love Chicago,” Pat says and then winces. None of Jess’ friends ever swear, so he adds, “Sorry.”

Jeff says, “Whatever man, Chicago’s got nothing on New York.” He’s looking at Amy as he says it. And Pat realizes maybe he’s got a little crush or something when he continues, “Amy, I still don’t understand why you didn’t try to get in somewhere in the City.”

Amy stirs her drink with her straw. “I don’t know. I thought I needed to go somewhere totally new, but now that I’m heading out, I’m nervous that I don’t know anyone.”

“Well, you’ll know Pat,” Jess says, cheerfully. “He can show you around.” Then she frowns. Pat figures she must be thinking what he’s thinking. Most of his haunts, the bars and clubs and parties that he likes, are probably the opposite of Amy’s idea of a good time. Though, really, now that he’s turned a corner, these haunts are not the kinds of places he should be going, either.

Pat says, “I’d love to show you around. Maybe discover some new stuff. There’s a lot of shit I haven’t really done yet.”

“Awesome,” Amada says, eyelashes fluttering. He thinks she’s flirting.

“Can you legit just walk around Chicago?” Jeff asks, the look on his face is sour. He’s challenging Pat, for sure. Pat may not be a fighter, but he sure as hell could kick this kid’s ass. “Without getting stampeded? Because you’re _so_ famous?”

Amy says, “You’re famous?”

Which okay, so she doesn’t get how much of a big deal he is. That’s cool. “Yeah, but only to hockey fans, I think.”

Jess coos. “You hurt his feelings, Amy. He wanted you to be impressed by him.”

“I am impressed,” she says, voice pitching up. Definitely, flirting. “I kind of thought hockey players were all drunken, douchey jocks. You’re… not like that.”

Pat’s heart sinks. He is like _that_. He’s the epitome of that. He fits almost every hockey stereotype he’s ever heard. He kind of _tries_ to.  

But, as he watches Amy tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and as he thinks about all the shit he’s fucked up back in Chicago, with his game, with the team, with _Jonny_ , he wants to be different.

“Do you want to go out for a drink?”

The ask comes out of the blue, for Pat as much as for anyone else. He hasn’t thought about Amy that way, at all, except to notice that she’d been flirting. He’s not sure he wants her to say yes. He kind of hopes she has a boyfriend.

The question hangs for a second.

Amy says, “Tonight? After church?”

Pat nods.

“Okay,” Amada agrees, smiling.

Jeff scooches his chair back with a loud screech of aluminum against concrete and announces that he has to use the restroom.

~

As soon as the waitress comes to take their order, Pat realizes he’s fucked up. Amy doesn’t drink. He probably shouldn’t either, now that he’s thinking clearly.  And so they spend an hour or so in a bar sipping diet cokes and sharing an order of chili cheese fries.

Pat’s doesn’t do any better on their second date, a walk along the lake front during which Pat’s not fully present because the whole time he’s trying to decide whether it’s appropriate for him to hold her hand. Is touching on the second date moving too quickly? He’s twenty-three years old. He should know this shit, but he’s only ever hooked up with people before. He never actually _dated_ anyone _._

Toward the end of the walk, he decides Amy’s not some overeager control freak trying to get Pat to put out (like Jonny) and probably isn’t going to make the first move (like Jonny), so it’s up to him. When he finally does link their fingers together, all he can think about is how small and soft she feels.

He and Jonny never held hands, but Pat thinks of Jonny’s thick fingers and hockey calluses and he knows that he’d prefer them to Amy’s. The thought makes him feel sick with guilt and he misses most of Amy’s description of her family’s annual summer reunion.

For the third date, Pat scopes out this fantastic Chinese restaurant on Yelp. It’s classy, with a full bar and lots of five-star reviews. Amy agrees readily and is particularly excited about the large fish tank right beside their table, but then she orders chicken fingers explaining she doesn’t really like Chinese food that much. Pat spends the rest of the meal wallowing in embarrassment.

He can’t but think that Jonny fucking loves Chinese, especially the Chicken fried rice Pat’s perfected from scratch.  And the memory of Jonny, in the kitchen, reaching around Pat to sneak a piece of chicken, still sizzling, from the wok, makes Pat _ache_.

 

 

Two days after that disaster of a third date with Amy, Pat leaves for Chicago. He arrives a few days early for the Convention, to meet with Brisson and the Blackhawks PR people. He has an awful lot of clean-up to do over the course of the week and, he’s told, everyone needs to be on the same page.

Pat’s initial meeting with the PR people runs long, probably because they spend the first twenty minutes berating him and then another twenty threatening him. He tries to tell them that he’s turned a corner. Eyes narrowed, the suited man in charge, Brian or something like that, asks him to elaborate.

He finds himself talking a little bit about being saved by Jesus and a little bit about meeting Amy. This is, apparently, a great fucking story, a story, everyone present agrees, that he should shout from the goddamn mountaintops. Praise Jesus, indeed, someone says.

Their excitement makes Pat really uncomfortable. He’s not interested in using his conversion for good PR. It’s a serious part of his life, one he wants to keep separate from any bullshit. So he negotiates a little. He’ll talk about having a “come-to-Jesus” moment and assure the fans that he’s really changed, that he’s really gotten serious, but he doesn’t have to mention any specifics about his faith.

He wonders a little bit about whether or not he’s doing the right thing.  Just last Wednesday, the preacher had spoken about not being ashamed of your Christianity, about taking risks and inviting others in. Still, Pat’s not quite ready to sell this yet, not when it’s just getting settled in him. He wants to protect it for a while.

When he exits the office, Jonny is leaning against the receptionist’s desk, chatting easily with the blond chick working behind it. He’s wearing a black suit, a _nice_ black suit and dress shoes.  He’s also wearing a baseball cap. When he flicks a look over his shoulder and meets Pat’s eyes, Pat manages to give him a small smile.

He can do this.

Jonny smiles back. It’s a tight, but happy, lighting up his face. Pat’s stomach turns over and- he can’t help it- his own smile grows broad, giddy, and maybe a little crazed. He’s fucking missed Jonny.

“Pat,” Jonny says. “How are you doing?” His voice is kind, concerned. It’s a nice a change after the dressing down he’s just received from the suits. And it’s an even nicer change from the radio silence that’d fallen between them for the last six months or so.

Pat licks his lips and nods. “Okay,” he says. “How about yourself? Your concussion finally healed?”

“Maybe,” Jonny shrugs. Then he says, slowly and with a faux casualness that fails completely, “Hey, actually. I kind of want to talk to you. Do you have plans for dinner?”

Pat shakes his head. He doesn’t.

Jonny reaches up to adjust his cap and the motion pulls his jacket tight around his shoulders. This is a fucking bad idea. Pat should not be alone with Jonny. He cannot trust himself alone with Jonny.

“Do you want to go out to the bar or something, get drinks, first?” Jonny asks, swallowing. Pat tracks the motion of the muscles in his throat. He thinks about pressing open mouthed kisses to that throat, about the way his lips would vibrate with the eager, encouraging little grunts Jonny would make in response.

Pat closes his eyes, trying to clear his head. He’s going to say no. Then he’s going to go home, maybe Skype with Jess or maybe do a devotion from that book she’d given him about restless hearts or some shit.

“Pat?” Jonny prompts. “You wanna get a beer or something?”

Pat shakes his head, and is immediately proud of himself. Saying no to Jonny isn’t so hard after all. Jonny’s frowning, again, and Pat hates it. It reminds of last winter. It reminds him of headaches and concussions. It reminds him of crowded bars and shitty sex. It reminds him of terrible, terrible passes and even more terrible shots. It reminds him of being so fucking lonely.

He wants to fix things with Jonny.

The reception desk’s phone rings and he’s suddenly away that they’re in public, that the receptionist has been listening to their conversation. Jonny clears his throat.

Pat says, “I’m not really drinking much these days. So, no beer.”

Jonny grins. “Really?” 

Pat raises his eyebrows. Is it really that fucking surprising and wonderful that he doesn’t want to grab a beer? Did Jonny think Pat was becoming an alcoholic or some shit?

Then, Jonny’s frowning. “You’re joking. This is a joke.”

“Fuck you, man. It’s not a joke,” Pat says. Great, five minutes with Jonny and he’s cussing again. Fucking great.

Jonny’s eyes soften, but his mouth is still hard, frowning. He looks like he’s caught in a mess of feelings, stuck somewhere between suspicious and hopeful. “Just dinner, then?”

Pat nods. That seems safe. Dinner is safe. Maybe they can begin to repair things. They are teammates after all.

~

Dinner _is_ nice, and Pat tries hard to keep his best bro face on. It’s not easy.

They’re seated in a dim booth at the back of the restaurant, complete with a rose and a flickering candle. Pat thinks the candle might be fake, but it’s hard to tell. Jonny orders a cheesy, buttery appetizer. It’s a favorite of Pat’s, but he knows Jonny could take it or leave it.

When Pat asks about the choice, Jonny says, “I don’t _not_ like it.”

As they wait, Jonny asks about Pat’s sisters and his mom. Pat asks about the size of the fish in Canada. They don’t mention Jonny’s concussion or Pat’s drunken escapades.

Pat sort of wants to throw it all out on the table, starting with the bad sex and ending with his newfound relationship with Jesus. He yearns for clarity. But, even as he watches Jonny smirk through a story about Richie and waterskiing, Pat has to admit, he also yearns for Jonny. Dinner is good. Talking again is good. Being friends, even, that could be really good.

And, in the flickering, orange light of the maybe fake candle, Pat realizes that one thing’s for damn sure: completely losing Jonny would be bad, really bad, the absolute fucking worst.

So the spend the meal passing stories about their teammates’ summers back and forth, catching each other up. When the waitress takes their plates, Pat’s just shown Jonny a picture of Maddie riding Shooter that Sharpy had sent him and they’re both laughing, giggling, really. Jonny hands Pat back his phone and their fingers brush. Pat tries not to think about it, but it’s hard.  It’s hard not think about Jonny’s fingers.

He clenches his fist and then meets Jonny’s eyes, expecting them to be filled with residual laughter. But they’re not. Jonny’s serious, stone faced. Pat’s shoulders tighten. It’s time, then, for them to talk.

Jonny says, “So, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there are some rumors about the contract renegotiation shit. Like, there’s talk that there might be another lock-out.”

First, Pat feels relieved. He’s glad not to talk about _them._

Then, he thinks about what Jonny’s just said. _Fuck._ He says, “You don’t think…”

Jonny’s face remains stony. “I’ve been talking to some other guys, across the league. I’m ready to hold strong on our side. But I don’t think it will actually come to that, not again.”

Pat picks at the napkin in his lap. “Hmmm…”

The waitress brings them the check. She lingers at the table, asking about the meal, the taste of the food, the service. Pat thinks she wants a picture, probably, but he’s not going to offer one. He doesn’t want to look like a douche.

Jonny slides his card on top of the check and hands it to the girl, who walks away with a little frown.

Jonny pulls out his phone. He’s thumbing through messages and pointedly not looking at Pat when he says, “You want to go back to mine? For a drink or something?”

Pat coughs because he thinks he’s been pretty clear about his non-sexual intentions. Jonny kicks him, lightly, in the shin under the table and then finally looks up and meets Pat’s eyes. Pat’s trying to frown meanly.

“Right,” Jonny says. “You don’t drink, now.” He doesn’t sound like he really believes it.

“I’m trying to be better. At, like, life,” Pat tells him. “So I should probably just go back to mine.”

Jonny’s lips turn down and he flips one hand so it’s palm up on top of the table. Pat wants to put his own, palm down, on top of it. Maybe that’s why Jonny’s done it.

But Pat manages to keep both his hands folded in his lap, tightly.

After a moment, Jonny says, “Okay. Good for you. See you at the Convention, then.”

The words are clipped. Pat thinks Jonny might be angry, which is stupid. Fuck him, anyway. They don’t say another word to each other as they leave the restaurant, not even goodbye.

~

Ke$ha is playing and Sharpy is trying to convince Pat to dance. He waggles his eyebrows and gestures toward the thrumming mass of bodies several yards beyond their booth. He’s not persuasive at all, probably because he’s not dancing himself, just laughing at the expense of the few guys out on the floor, thrusting their hips awkwardly in shitty attempts at getting laid. Still, Sharpy persists because he knows the truth: no one on the team _enjoys_ dancing, not like Pat does.

Pat raises his beer up, an excuse to stay seated. Tonight, Pat’s not really feeling the party vibe. The music’s good, yeah. The crowd is rocking, yeah. He’s with his buddies after a long-ass summer of boring nights in. And, yeah, he’s had pretty shitty day, overall, with couple of prodding interviews about his spring shenanigans and several more dressing downs from various Blackhawks personnel. Tonight is the perfect night for getting fucked up. Part of him desperately wants to down a whole tray of tequila shots.

His will power is holding, though. It’s two hours into the night and he’s still on his first beer. Remaining sober hasn’t been as difficult as he’d anticipated, not with Jonny just a few seats over watching him.

He _knows_ Jonny doesn’t believe he’s cleaned up his act. He _knows_ Jonny’s just waiting for him to fuck this up, too. And Pat sure as hell isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of being right, not about this.

His phone vibrates with a text, the first in a few hours. It’s from Amy.

_Jess showed me an interview from the Convention. I’m proud of you._

He looks at the beer in front of him. He shouldn’t have come out tonight. For some reason, the thought of Amy watching him apologize for fucking shit up, watching him flounder through promises that he’s going to try harder, makes him want to wretch.

He’s not a hero. For so long, he’s wanted to be a hero, a master of life, as much as a master of hockey, just like all his favorite players growing up. But he’s not. He’s just not cut out for that kind of responsibility.

He should reply to her, since they kind of have a thing, now. A quick _thanks_ would do the trick. He puts his phone back in his pocket.

“Pat.” It’s Jonny. Somehow the guys have shuffled around, to and from the bar and the dance floor so that now they’re sitting next to one another, shoulders centimeters from touching. “You seem really strange.”

His voice is quiet, soft, and a little rough. His mouth is a flat line, seemingly emotionless, but Pat knows him well enough to easily read this particular combination of tone and expression. Jonny’s worried about him.

Which, okay, even as clearly as he sees the concern, it’s not the reaction he’d expected.

Pat says, “Just not in the mood for this craziness, I guess.”

Jonny nods, but his lips remain tight and his gaze stays trained on Pat’s face. “I can see that. That’s what’s strange.”

Pat tilts his head and meets Jonny’s eyes. Pat can see gold flecks against the brown background of Jonny’s irises and his stomach flips. This, coming out to the club, not drinking, sitting next to Jonny, it was all a mistake.  

“Partying is not nearly as fun sober,” he tells Jonny, trying to keep his voice steady. He wonders what would happen between them if he had a few drinks in his system. Probably something fucking fanstastic--- ally terrible. Fantastically terrible.

“I’ve been your DD often enough to be well aware of that, Kaner.” Jonny’s tone is dry, but his expression has softened. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

Pat waits until Jonny’s lifted his own mug of beer to his lips to say, “The Holy Spirit.”

Jonny chokes a little as he swallows. “The Holy Spirit? What the fuck? Don’t come at with your Catholic bullshit. I don’t buy it.”

Pat grimaces. He doesn’t really want to talk religion with Jonny, so he adds, “And I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“A girlfriend?” Jonny’s brows furrow and he speaks his next words slowly, sounding puzzled. “You’ve never had a girlfriend before. You don’t even like girls. What the fuck?”

“Her name is Amy. I met her through church stuff.”

“Church stuff?” Jonny sounds like an idiot. He keeps repeating Pat.

They’re silent for a few seconds and Pat decides he’d better text Amy back after all, if she’s going to be part of his defense against alcohol and partying and Jonny feelings.

“She has a nice smile. She’s from Buffalo, or actually a smaller town nearby Buffalo, but she’s moving to Chicago in the fall.” Fuck, he’s babbling. Jonny probably doesn’t give two shits about Amy.

He’s never given any shits about Jonny’s girls.

Well, actually, that’s a lie. He gave way too many shits about Jonny’s ladies, but he’d never admit as much to Jonny.

He watches Jonny frown into his beer. “She’s leaving Buffalo for you, already? Seems like you might be rushing things there, Kaner.”

“No, dickwad. She’s coming here for graduate school,” Pat says. Jonny’s been calling him Kaner all night and it’s starting to piss him off. Like, that’s not what he’d called him when Pat had his mouth around his dick. He knows Pat’s goddamn name.

“A gentlemen, now that you’ve stopped drinking, and a scholar, with your brainiac girlfriend.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pat tells him.

“Sue me. I’m drunk,” Jonny says. And, wow, he must be worked up because that’s a lie he’s never told before. Pat knows what Jonny’s like when he’s drunk and this tight, controlled broodiness sure as hell isn’t it.

“I think you’d like her,” Pat says, partly because he can tell talking about Amy is irritating Jonny and partly because it’s true. Jonny probably _would_ get along with Amy. They could hold him to a higher standard, _together_.

“I fucking hate her already,” Jonny says, digging his own phone out of his pocket. His vehemence is uncalled for and it knocks the wind out of Pat’s sails.

“Whatever, man,” Pat says. “I think I’m gonna call a cab.”

“So you can go home and have phone sex with Amber?” Jonny asks.

“It’s Amy, you dumbass, and no, she’s not like that.” Jonny’s really starting to irritate Pat. If this is any indication of how the season’s going to go, Pat kind of wishes he had been fucking traded, anything to get away from Jonny’s pissy bullshit.

Jonny laughs. “Oh, yeah? She’s a good girl? Doesn’t ask you to put out? That makes a hell of a lot more sense.”

“Fuck off,” Pat tells him. He pushes at Jonny’s shoulder. He wants out. “I’m leaving.”

Jonny scotches out. He’s shaking his head, mouth grim, as Pat moves past him and toward the door.

Pat doesn’t text Amy back until the next morning: _Ty_

~

The last night of the Convention, Pat falls off the wagon.

He blames Sharpy for all of it. For getting him drunk. For convincing him to go to the club. For letting him leave the club with Jonny. Basically, Sharpy’s an asshole who doesn’t support Pat’s new life choices and cajoles him into all types places and activities that are very inappropriate, considering.

Except that’s not really how it happens at all.

It’s just Pat and Sharpy at dinner. Surprisingly, team plans haven’t been made for later, not yet, and Pat thinks he might be able to slip his way out of them with the totally false excuse of an early flight. He lets the waitress pour him a glass of red wine, since he’s safe with Sharpy and it’ll only be the one. 

Sharpy’s a good talker. It’s one of the reasons they get along so well, so most of the meal is filled with hopelessly adorable stories of Madeline’s toddling escapades.

But once their plates are cleared, Sharpy mans up and asks what he’s apparently been dying to ask since they sat down, “So about the end of the season? That trip to Madison? What’s up with that shit? You through it?”

Pat thinks about Jess and Jesus and Jonny. He’s not sure, yet, whether he’s made it through. Still, he says, “Yeah, you could say that. I think I’ve turned a corner.”

“That secret relationship really did a number on you,” Sharpy says. Both the words and the sharpness of his gaze as he says them, surprise Pat. Sharpy’s not wrong, though, so he nods and takes a gulp of wine. 

Then he says, “I’m actually seeing someone new, a girl from Buffalo. Amy.”

Sharpy’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t comment. Instead, he flags the waitress down and implores her to refill their wine glasses.

Pat almost stops her, but if he’s going to answer Sharpy’s questions, he might need an extra bit of fortification.

~

The fucker’s handsome, it’s the only explanation Pat has for what follows. Because, without further prodding, Pat starts to talk about what happened between him and Jonny. He leaves out some key details, like Jonny’s name and profession and gender. But he tells Sharpy the story, all the same, lets him see just a peak of Pat’s heartache.

He realizes he really misses Jonny, as his boyfriend. And, for the first time, he admits as much out loud, to Sharpy. 

“I wish it hadn’t ended. I’d take her back in a heartbeat,” he says.

Pat’s not quite teary-eyed and three and a half glasses in, when Sharpy’s phone rings.

“Hey, Jonny-boy,” he answers. “Yeah, we’ll meet you there.”

Sharpy pauses and Pat tries to think uncharitable thoughts about Jonny. He can’t. Instead, he thinks about Jonny’s shoulders, about the way the button-up he’d been wearing the night before had been just a touch too tight.

Sharpy says, “I’m with Kaner. We’ll catch a cab together.”

Pat tilts his head and tries to catch Sharpy’s eye. He needs to communicate to him that he’s not interested in going out tonight, that he needs to stay the fuck away from Jonny.

As soon as he hangs up the phone, Sharpy says, “Don’t make that face, Kaner. You’re well on your way to drunk enough to dance your ass off. It’d be rude to deny the rest of us the opportunity to watch.”

“Fuck you. I don’t wanna,” Pat says, immediately proud of himself for sticking to his guns.

But Sharpy’s already dialing the cab company. It has been a while since Pat’s really let loose. He’s been so good that he might deserve a night off. He finishes his glass of wine before the cab arrives.

They’re mobbed, pressed for pictures and autographs, as soon as they enter the club. The team’s whereabouts must have gotten out to fans.

“Fuck the internet,” Sharpy says. But Pat doesn’t mind. The longer he’s posing with scantily clad, female “really I’m such a fan”s, the more opportunity he has to sober up before seeing Jonny.

Unfortunately, the plan to keep his head clear flies right out the fucking window, because Seabs gives him shot and raised eyebrow as soon as he gets to the VIP section. Pat can’t say ‘no’ to a raised eyebrow. _Fuck._

Jonny’s talking to a woman, young and tall and blonde, at small table. It’s just the two of them and the woman keeps pressing her hand to her throat. Pat begins to walk toward them, ready with a half-formed chirp about Jonny’s _type_ , when Duncs grabs his arm, squeezing his bicep, hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck off,” he mutters, wrenching away.

“Leave Jonny alone, Kaner. He’s about to pick up,” Duncs says. He’s sober. Pat hates it when Duncs is sober.

“Get this man a drink,” Pat calls out, loudly and to no one in particular.

Jonny looks up at that, meeting Pat’s eyes. He frowns. Pat smiles.

Duncs says, “Seriously, Pat, leave him alone.”

Pat gives Duncs the finger and wanders over to Jonny’s table. Jonny’s making eyes at his chick, but Pat feels like Jonny’s probably _trying_ not to watch Pat. He hopes that’s the case, at least. He hopes that Jonny’s still as distracted by his presence as he is by Jonny’s.

“Hey, Jonny,” he says.

“Kaner,” Jonny says, looking away from blondie to give him a small smile.

The smile, even though it’s just a barely there lift of his lips, makes Pat _remember_ things- things like candles and cuddles and half-hearted, half-naked chirping- and suddenly he recalls that he shouldn’t be here, that he should be at home, away from the party, away from the alcohol, away from Jonny’s face.

The girl with Jonny says, “Patrick Kane, right? You’re really good. You’re my husband’s favorite player.”

She fiddles with the ends of her hair.

“Your _husband?_ ” Pat asks, making eye contact with Jonny who shrugs.

The woman looks him up and down. She licks her lips. “He’s here,” she tells them. “Somewhere.”

Pat sits down beside Jonny. He needs saving, probably.  Into Jonny’s ear, he breathes, “I’ve got this.”

Jonny says, “Have you been drinking?” He sounds surprised. Which, fuck yeah, he should be surprised. Pat has more willpower than people give him credit for.

Pat says, softly, “Fuck Sharpy.” A little more loudly, he says, “But don’t, like, actually _fuck_ Sharpy. He’s married. Cheating is wrong.”

Jonny takes a swig of beer. His brows are drawn together as he considers Pat. Pat thinks he’d describe the look as ‘dubious.’ He grins and tells Jonny, “I want to be friends again.”

Which, shit, where the fuck did that statement come from? All it takes is one teeny, tiny smile and a couple glasses of wine and he’s back on his knees in front of Jonny. Okay, he’s not actually on his knees, but it’s a close thing. 

The woman coughs. She says, “I’ve got to run to the ladies room. Excuse me.”

“It was nice to meet you,” Pat lies.

Jonny says, “Friends? We are friends, Kaner.” He flexes a fist on the table. Pat likes his hands. He likes the length of his fingers and the thickness. They’re good hands, talented hands. Really, really talented.

Pat says, “Come to my apartment.”

Jonny narrows his eyes, “To do what?” He wraps a hand around his beer and Pat’s caught again. Those fucking fingers.

What could they do? They shouldn’t fuck and they shouldn’t drink. Pat suggests, “Help me pack?”

Jonny sits back in his seat. It’s a little awkward at the table, the two of them sitting beside each other, across from two empty chairs. Jonny’s face is impassive and Pat he can’t look away. He’s waiting for some change, some sign or signal indicating what the fuck is going on in his head.

When Jonny finally turns his face toward Pat, he sees it, the hint he’s looking for. Jonny’s eyes have that edge, pupils a little wider, mouth a little softer, jaw just a little bit more set. Pat knows what that look means: Jonny wants to take Pat back to his apartment and fuck him.

This is the opposite of what Pat should want, and he needs to find an out, to tell Jonny he’s tired, so nevermind, or something. Naturally, what he says is: “Is that a ‘yes?’”

Jonny nods.

In the cab, Jonny’s hand settles high on Pat’s thigh. Pat tries not to think about it. Like, friends touch each other. Friends get boners because their friend’s hand is only inches away from their dick. And it’s not like he and Jonny are _just_ friends. They’re also former lovers. So that’s probably a special category of friends with a whole different set of normal feelings, feelings that are great to ignore.

In the elevator Pat says to Jonny, “I’m thinking about taking some of my Blue Rays back with me to New York. What do you think? Maybe the Star Wars series?”

Jonny doesn’t say anything. He just sighs and they go up and up and up and up.

Pat says, “Remember the time you were so mad at me for not passing to you in that game against LA last fall that you wouldn’t get in the elevator with me and, instead of waiting for another, you climbed all seventy-two flights of stairs?”

It’s one of Pat’s favorite memories. He remembers being surprised that Jonny came home with him that night at all. Except that they’d been practically living together. And, well, of course, Jonny didn’t want to sleep alone. Pat hadn’t wanted to either. And he doesn’t want to now.

Pat wonders if Jonny’d had as much trouble with insomnia as Pat’d had last spring, after they’d stopped.

He wonders if he’ll sleep alone tonight. Which, no, actually, he doesn’t wonder that. Of course, he’ll fucking sleep alone. He’s changed. Things are different now.

He’s reassured of this, even as Jonny follows him closely through the hall to his door, practically breathing down his neck, because from the entry-way of his apartment he can see the Bible laid out on the counter, where he’d been reading it during breakfast. He’s been good this summer. He’ll keep being good.

 He breathes deeply and toes off his shoes. He begins to say, “I guess we should…”

But he doesn’t have the chance to finish because Jonny kisses him. It’s a soft kiss, lips closed and little hesitant. It doesn’t last long either, because Jonny pulls back.  He says, “I want to…. Can we…?”

He’s looking into Pat’s eyes and Pat’s looking right back. Pat swallows.

He’d kind of expected Jonny to try something, but he hadn’t expected it to be something so gentle. He’d expected Jonny’s come on to be drunken, rough and insistent. That’s what he’d steeled himself for. Or, actually, that’s what he’d kind of wanted. In the heat of the moment, anything that happened between them could then be a mistake, his body obeying the alcohol and his stupid fucking dick.

Instead, Jonny meets him with tenderness and a little fear. And, really, that shouldn’t surprise Pat. That’s how it was between them, before, at the beginning.

Jonny prompts, “Pat?” And Pat’s throat tightens. He’s not out of his mind wasted. No, he knows exactly what’s happening. Jonny’s giving him the choice. And Pat knows what he wants to choose.

It’s wrong. It could undo all the work he’s done so far this summer, but he wants to choose Jonny.   

Pat steps closer, into Jonny’s space, and presses their lips together again, harder this time, and open-mouthed. Pat slides his hands around Jonny’s waist, up his back and through his hair. He’d forgotten this, the smell of Jonny, the feel of Jonny’s hard planes tight against his own. He can’t get enough of it and the slow, deliberate pace of the kiss changes into something a little more eager, maybe even desperate. Pat lets his hands wander, map every inch of Jonny’s body. They rest, finally, on the curve of Jonny’s ass, still fantastic as ever.

Jonny groans and cants his hips toward Pat so that he can feel Jonny’s erection hot through the fabric of their pants. It’s suddenly very important to Pat that they get naked.

Pat pulls back from the kiss. Into his neck, Jonny’s murmurs, wetly, “I’ve fucking missed you. I thought this was over.”

Pat turns his head, making more room for Jonny, who’s started to kiss his neck. Pat thinks, _it is over._ But he doesn’t say so.

Pat starts to back up into the living area and Jonny follows, eager and awkward, hands not letting go from where they’re fisted in the material of Pat’s shirt. He’s aiming for the couch. The bedroom would be ideal, but they’ll get there, hopefully, later.

In a flurry of movement- he’s not really sure if he falls or if Jonny pushes him- Pat collapses back onto the couch. Jonny crawls over him, lifting his shirt up and talking. He’s finally talking, filthy wonderful Jonnytalk.

“Pat, you’ve bulked up a bit. Your abs, holy fuck. I want to lick them, but not as much as I want to lick your dick.”

Pat keens and arches up so that his dick grinds against Jonny’s ass. Jonny presses down harder, trapping Pat against the cushions. His ass is, as it always has been, surprisingly hard, muscular, and Pat wants to bite it.

“I’ve fantasized about this, Pat,” Jonny tells him. “I was an asshole. I was so goddamn stupid about that concussion. You were right. I shouldn’t have ignored the symptoms. I should have told someone. I should have told you.”

Jonny’s got Pat’s shoulders pinned, too, with his hands. And he’s looking into Pat’s eyes as he speaks. Pat can see the outline of Jonny’s dick in the front of his pants, hard and eager for release, but Pat can also see unhappy regret in the lines on Jonny’s forehead.

Jonny’s right to apologize. Pat ‘s been waiting for that apology since fucking February- six months he’s been waiting. And it’s more than a little anti-climactic because he’s remembering, suddenly, everything that’s happened in the time in between.

“Pat,” Jonny says, moving a hand up to cradle Pat’s jaw and run a thumb down his cheek. “Talk to me.”

But Pat doesn’t know what to say. Well, he knows what he wants to say. He knows what would erase the lines on Jonny’s forehead and the panic in his voice. He knows what would make him, Patrick fucking Kane, happy, in the short term, at least.

But he also knows what he should say, what he has to say, what he’s going to say.

He shifts onto his elbows, wanting a little height, a little leverage, a little power. The motion has the unfortunate side effect of pressing his dick, still half-hard tighter against Jonny’s ass and he groans out a, “Fuck.”

Then, he says, “Jonny, we can’t do this. It just fucks things up. It fucked things up last spring and it will fuck things up again.”

This reasoning felt muddled and only half-true in his head and he’s surprised to hear it come out coherent and maybe even a little convincing.

Jonny huffs out a breath and crosses his arms. He doesn’t move from where he’s seated on Pat. Pat’s legs are starting to tingle from loss of blood flow, but he figures that now is not the time to bring that up. “My concussion had nothing to do with _us,_ Pat. Only with me being stupid.”

Pat frowns. He swallows and then says, slowly, because it hurts a bit to admit it out loud, “If I’d been paying more attention to you as a player and less attention to you as, like, a boyfriend, or whatever, I would of have known earlier. I would have told Coach Q.”

“Bullshit,” Jonny says. His mouth is tight, as he regards Pat. “Seeing as you were the only one on the team to figure it out and you only figured it out because we _lived_ together, that is the opposite of true.”

Pat licks his lips. Pressure is starting to build at his temples and behind his eyes. He thinks he might cry. “It’s wrong, Jonny, what we’re doing, what we did, it’s wrong and it’s not what I want out of life.”

Jonny’s face darkens, “How the fuck can you say that? How the fuck can you _believe_ that?”

Pat shakes his head. “You should probably leave. I have to call Amy.”

Jonny moves off of Pat, but doesn’t get off the couch. “Amy,” he says.

“Yeah,” Pat tells him. “That girl I was telling you about.”

“It’s the middle of the night, man,” Jonny says.

Pat stands up and digs his phone out of his back pocket. He thinks Jonny’s watching, but he doesn’t check to make sure. Maybe if he ignores him, he’ll go away.

Amy has texted him, but it was hours ago. She wants to know when he’ll be back in town, and if they can go out for dinner and movie.

Forward girl, asking him on a date. He decides he likes that. (Actually, he might _need_ that.) He sends her a _Yea_ _J_

Jonny says, “It’s not going to go away.”

Before he can stop himself Pat replies, “What isn’t?”

He knows before Jonny answers him that he doesn’t want to hear it. And he’s right because Jonny says: “Our feelings for each other. Your feelings for dudes.”

Pat meets his eyes. “You’re wrong,” he lies. “They already have.”

Jonny shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. That pisses Pat off because Jonny shouldn’t be amused by his comment. He should be fucking hurt by it. Pat’s trying to hurt him, to get him to _leave_.

“You’re a shitty liar,” Jonny says, finally standing.

At the door he says, “Goodnight, Pat. I _do_ miss you.”

Pat doesn’t reply. He’s not sure how to reply. As the door snicks behind Jonny, Pat types into his phone, _this sucks._

He sends the message to Erica.

Erica calls him right away, “Please tell me you’ve seen the light and gotten back together with Jonny? Though, from your text, I’m doubting it.”

“Everything was supposed to be different,” Pat tells her. “It was supposed to be easier to resist, with Jesus’ help, or whatever.”

“Fuck Jesus,” Erica says.

“Erica.”

“No, I’m serious. I know that sobering up and making friends with Jess’ church people was good for you earlier this summer, but the gay hate is bullshit.” She sounds bitter and that makes Pat really fucking angry because it wasn’t like she lent her support in Pat’s time of need.

“It’s not about gay hate or homophobia. It’s about sin. It’s what’s right and what’s wrong.” Pat explains, stunned by his own eloquence for the second time that evening.

Erica pauses. Then she says, “What happened with Jonny?”

“He came back to my apartment and apologized for being a douche about his concussion. Then, I kicked him out.” Even as he says it, he can hear how bad it sounds.

“Nice,” Erica says. Then, “You have to apologize, too.”

Pat lies down on the couch. It smells a little bit like Jonny’s cologne. He likes the smell. Maybe he can find out what it is and buy some for himself. Fuck. That would not make any sense.

“Apologize for what?”

Erica’s response is immediate, almost cutting him off. “Oh my god. I cannot do this. Maybe you should talk to Jess about this, since the two of you are so close. Or what about that chick you’ve been seeing, Amy? They could probably tell you what you want to hear.”

Pat’s heart picks up. “No. I can’t… They don’t know about… Erica, you can’t say anything.”

Erica says, “Of course they don’t fucking know and of course I won’t say anything. I’m just trying to show you how much a dick you’re being about all of this. It’s hard to be a gay NHL player. It’s hard to be in love with your best friend. Okay, whatever. I get it. Get over yourself and do something productive.”

Pat is having difficulty listening to what she’s saying. It feels a little like she’s talking about someone else’s life, not his. He tells her, “I think I’m going to pray about it.”

“Great idea, God’ll probably swoop right down and apologize to Jonny for you,” Erica says. Fuck, she’s being a brat tonight. He wonders if _she’s_ been drinking.

“I don’t think God works like that,” Pat tells her. Well, actually, according to everything he’s read at church, God is supposed to work like that. And God did put Jess and Jess’ church and Damon and Amy in his life. But, like, the abnormal (sinful?) sexual feelings haven’t even dimmed. And that’s the one thing he’s prayed about the most, the hardest, since he was first aware of them.

“Pat, I’ve got to go. I have work early tomorrow.”  Erica sounds tired and Pat realizes it’s probably fuck o’clock in the morning.

“Yeah, I’ll be home tomorrow evening.”

“See you, then, Pat,” Erica says.

“Goodbye.”

“Apologize to Jonny.”

He hangs up.

He thumbs through the contacts on his phone. He’s not ready to go to bed. He wants to keep chatting. He definitely doesn’t want to be alone.

“Pat?” Jonny answers his phone right away, too quickly for Pat to hang up and pretend he hadn’t called.

“Yeah, hi. I need to talk to you,” Pat tells him. He’s not sure what he’s going to say.

Apologize. Maybe. That’s what Erica had said.

“Okay…” Jonny waits. Pat supposes he could say what he needs to over the phone. But for some reason it feels very important that Jonny come back to his place, that they talk in person. Anyway, it’ll give him more time to prepare.

“Can you come back here?”

Jonny doesn’t say anything and Pat panics. This is it. He’s lost him. He’s too late. _Fuck._

“I made a mistake,” Pat clarifies. Maybe he’ll come back if he knows that Pat’s sorry. “I want to apologize.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.” He sounds uncertain. Pat can’t blame him. He’d just kicked him out mid-sex. To be fair, though, Jonny’d been the one to start the boner killing conversation.

~

Pat’s still without words, or the right words, at least, when Jonny knocks at his door. He’s spent the last twenty minutes working out and talking to himself. Moving, working his muscles, always helps clear his head.

Jonny smiles at him, eyes lingering on Pat’s neck where Pat can feel a droplet of sweat slide down beneath the collar of his shirt. “You’re gross. Have you been…? Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“Jonny,” Pat begins. He stops.

Jonny looks at him, face impassive.

“Let’s go to my room,” Pat suggests. He’s not sure why this seems like a good idea. Objectively, it’s a terrible idea, an idea that will inevitably end in sex. Probably. Maybe. Jonny nods and gestures for Pat to lead the way.

Pat strips off his shirt as they walk.

They both sit on the edge of the bed. Pat digs a socked toe into the carpet. “I’m sorry,” Pat tells him.

Jonny scoots so he’s laying back against Pat’s pillows. “Okay. For what?”

Pat moves so he’s lying beside Jonny, pressed shoulder to shoulder. Jonny smells so fucking good tonight. Pat can only imagine he must smell like shit in comparison, especially after his little work out. What the hell was he thinking?

 “For, um, pushing you away earlier. I’m glad you said what you said. It made me feel good. Better. And I’m also feeling shitty about how I treated you last spring. I just wish we could go back to being how we were.”

Jonny rolls onto his side so that he’s looking at Pat, who’s doing his best to lie still. He’s not going to turn to Jonny. That would put their lips too fucking close.

Jonny traces a finger down Pat’s arm. “Yeah? Way to be specific.”

Pat’s skin tingles where Jonny touches it. It sort of tickles and it sort of turns him on. He has no idea what Jonny just said, but he decides their silence is probably a bad thing.

“I think about you, a lot. You’re my best friend, Jonny. Almost all the stuff I do, I wish I was doing with you. Playing hockey, but also, like, playing video games and eating cereal and, like, going to church.” Wow. He’s just laying it all out. He doesn’t even remember thinking these things. They’re true of course, but, like, people don’t really say shit like that, not out loud. He tenses, waiting for Jonny to berate him for being a hypocrite, especially for the church bit.  

Jonny says, “Pat, look at me.”

Pat does and Jonny kisses him. There’s no tentativeness this time. Jonny knows what he wants, and so does Pat and that’s spit and tongue and maybe a little bit of teeth.

Pat whines when Jonny pulls away.

“We gonna do this?” Jonny asks.

“I want to,” Pat tells him and then he presses their lips together again.

Jonny’s hands fist in the hair at Pat’s nape. It’s longer than usual and he’s thinking about keeping it that way. He likes the feel of Jonny’s fingers pulling at it.

Jonny slips a hand down Pat’s pants and wraps it around his cock. He says, “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

Pat bites Jonny’s shoulder. The friction of Jonny’s hand around him is a lot, too much maybe, but he loves it. “Fuck me,” he says.

“Yeah?” Jonny asks. “Can I?”

It takes Pat a minute to realize what he’s asking. Pat hadn’t meant to ask Jonny to literally fuck him. He thinks about the last time they’d been together. About Jonny not getting off. About Jonny rolling over, filled with self-hate, leaving hate feeling empty and used.

“Jonny,” he says. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea. “Last time wasn’t…”

Jonny says, “Yeah, I know. Let me fix it. I want to fix it. I’m better. It’ll be better.”

Jonny sounds desperate and a little needy. It’s so out of character that Pat pulls back to meet his eyes.

Jonny’s frowning at his down at own arm, at the place it disappears into Pat’s sweats. Pat wishes he would look up, meet his eyes.

“You want to? I thought last time was bad for you.”

Jonny squeezes Pat’s cock and Pat groans. “I had a concussion, Pat. I can do better.”

Pat nods. “Okay. Fuck me, then.” It comes out like a challenge, even though he’s feeling tender. If Jonny were a girl, he might, like, coo something really romantic at her now. But Jonny’s not a girl so Pat says, “Stick me with that dick.”

Jonny laughs. “You are the shittiest dirty talker I have ever had sex with.”

“Pot, kettle,” Pat says.

Jonny raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

Pat grins. Jonny’s taken it as a challenge. Fuck, yeah.

And the filth begins to pour out of him. All the things he’s fantasized about doing to Pat, opening him up, licking him out, fucking him from behind, sticking him on top for a ride, holding tight to the base of his cock so that he can’t come until Jonny tells him to.

As Jonny talks, Pat tries to do two things at once: hump Jonny’s hard-ass thigh and remove all of Jonny’s clothing. It sort of works. Eventually, he has to give up the humping in order to pull off the pants and briefs.

Once they’re both naked, Jonny stops talking. His eyes roam over Pat’s body, lingering on his cock, full and pink between his legs.

“Are you sure, Pat?”

Pat nods. He’s not sure, not completely. Or rather, he’s not sure he’ll be happy with the choice tomorrow and the next day and all the days after that. But right now he’s sure. Right now this is what he wants.

It’s nothing like the last time they tried it. There was no romantic dinner or music, no candles or flowers. This time Jonny doesn’t have any toys. And the lube is just the same shitty brand Pat’s always used, the brand Jonny’s continually making fun of Pat for still keeping around.

But it works. The whole thing works, so much better than before.

Pat’s on his stomach as Jonny fingers him, slow and deliberate, adding one goddamn finger at a time. Pat really fucking loves those fingers, especially when they’re working him open. His cock, already dripping, is pinned tightly between the bedspread and Pat’s stomach. He fucking hates getting his bedspread laundered, but fuck it. He hasn’t had sex in months. It’s worth it, even just for the sound of Jonny’s sex voice murmuring obscenities against Pat’s back.

The high pitch of the noise Pat makes when Jonny finally finds his prostate is more than embarrassing. It surprises Pat. He’d almost forgotten how much he loves a good finger fucking.

“Fuck, Jonny,” he says. “So fucking good.”

Jonny presses a wet kiss to the small of his back. “Glad you like it.”

“I’d like your dick even better,” Pat informs him. Because, enough with this bullshit, he’s ready to take it.

“Roll over,” Jonny tells him, bossy as always.

But then he adds, tone softer, “I know it’s not the best, but I need to see you, right now.”

Pat complies and meets Jonny’s eyes. His pupils are blown and he’s frowning.  It’s a happy frown. Pat can tell.

So Pat lays on his back, legs spread wide, with Jonny between them, fucking into him. They haven’t been together like this in so long. They’d barely spoke to one another for the six months before the Conference.

But, somehow, it’s still easy now, easier than ever, maybe, and definitely not awkward at all.

Jonny comes first, with an abrupt thrust which he holds and holds, and he leans down to kiss Pat, tongue a little wild his mouth as he fills Pat’s ass. The fingernails of left hand bite into Pat’s bicep where he’s gripping it. When his dick stops pulsing, he collapses on top of Pat with a groan.

“The fuck?” Pat asks. He’s still hard and he’s not about to let Jonny wuss out on this one. He’s fucking coming and Jonny’s going to help.

With a dramatic sigh, Jonny lifts himself up and then climbs down the bed to take Pat’s dick into his mouth. Pat had kind of expected a hand job, but this is much better. Jonny sucks and then moans.

Then, he sort of smiles around Pat’s dick and reaches behind to roll Pat’s balls in his palm. Pat’s hands scramble above his head clutching at the bedspread.

“Jonny,” Pat says.

Jonny moans and grips his balls just a little bit more tightly. Jonny takes Pat deeper, so that the head of his dick slides up against the back of his throat. It’s fucking good that Pat lets himself move a bit, fucking into Jonny’s mouth.

“Jonny, I—“ Pat really needs to tell Jonny how good this is. How good _he_ is, at sucking Pat’s dick, but also, like in general. “I really—“  

He thrusts up and Jonny lets out another little moan, and then Pat’s coming, hard.

Jonny pulls off and Pat stretches his back, a long overdue wave of tiredness catching up to him. He notices that his ass is wet, dripping even. They hadn’t used a condom. _Fucking hell_ , Pat thinks, though the adequate amount of irritation and worry escape him.

Jonny wraps himself around Pat, squishing his face into Pat’s neck and tangling their legs together. Pat almost pushes him away. This isn’t how they sleep. Pat _can’t_ sleep this way.

But, before he says anything, he takes note of his body. And, actually, he feels incredibly calm and loose. And happy.

He’s happy, here, close to Jonny.

Yeah, he thinks, he’s probably gonna be able to fall asleep like this, after all. The slow syrupy heaviness is seeping up from his toes through to his shoulders.

“Patrick,” Jonny whispers.

Jonny and his goddamn night whispers. Pat does not have the energy for talking, not right now, anyway.

So he doesn’t respond. Maybe Jonny will let him sleep.

“Pat? Are you asleep?” Jonny asks again, voice rough. Pat tries to keep his breathing even. Maybe Jonny will buy his performance, believe he’s already sleeping. Whatever Jonny wants to say can wait till morning.

“Of fuckin’ course you are,” Jonny says and sighs. 

He starts to talk, anyway. “I’m really…” Then he stops with a frustrated huff of breath. He says, “I mean, I don’t know if…”

Jonny pauses again, now beginning to sound pretty upset. Suddenly, Pat’s eager to hear what Jonny’s going to say. He shifts closer, no longer caring if Jonny knows he’s awake. He gets this _feeling_ that he _has_ to hear this from Jonny, that it’s important. Whatever it is has Jonny tense, maybe even scared. Pat wants to pull it out of him, shake it out of him, fucking saying it for him if he has to.    

Jonny sighs, “Yeah.”

The word has a finality to it, like Jonny’s had some sort of internal conversation and he’s agreeing with himself. _Fuck._ Pat tries to decide if it’s worth it to open his eyes, to talk, to ask what the hell Jonny’s on about.

But then Jonny says, “I do love you, though. I do.” He traces the back of a finger over Pat’s cheek. It sends a tickle of warm, swooping affection down Pat’s spine.

Jonny sounds sad about his admission, about his love for Pat. And Pat can’t figure out why he’s sad because Pat thinks that great. It’s exactly the thing- the thing that Pat was trying to think, to piece together and say earlier, when Jonny’s mouth had been wrapped around his dick. Actually, Pat’s been trying to piece it together for a lot longer than that, maybe since the very beginning. And they may not be able to do anything about it, but it’s something, this love, and it feels awesome and _true_ and so so huge.

Pat wants Jonny to know that he feels the same way, but he also wants to sleep. And he’s not sure whether or not Jonny wanted him to know, to be part of this private moment. Pat decides that tomorrow morning, he’ll find some way to slip it in.

Tomorrow morning they’ll work it out. Tomorrow morning they’ll piece together what’s wrong and right about what’s between them and what they can do about it.

~

It’s late when Pat wakes up, an inch of bright, white sunlight peeping between the heavy, black drapes on his window. He feels sore, a deep and unfamiliar ache in his muscles, but relaxed. He blinks his eyes open and breathes deeply. The room smells like sweat and sex and Jonny’s cologne.

He turns his head, hoping, expecting to see Jonny beside him. But the space is empty, sheets straightened and pillow refluffed. Which, that doesn’t make sense. Not after all that come out between them the night before. Not after Jonny’s _confession_.

Jonny wouldn’t up and leave, not after all that.

Pat calls out, “Jonny!”

He’s probably in the bathroom or maybe the kitchen. Pat lies very still, listening. Except, he’s got the place soundproofed pretty well, lots of carpet. He tells himself, there’s a good chance he wouldn’t hear someone in kitchen. It’s maybe not true.

He climbs out of bed. And no, Jonny’s not in the bathroom. And he’s not in the living area. And he’s not in the kitchen.

Pat needs to check his phone. Maybe Jonny shot him a text. Maybe _he_ had to get ready for his flight.

But when Pat goes back into his bedroom and picks up his phone off the bedside table, the there’s nothing, not from Jonny, anyway.

Pat finds himself getting pretty fucking pissed. What the fuck is Jonny’s problem, slinking out like this? If Jonny wants treat Pat like some shitty one night stand after he fucking admitted he _loved_ Pat, then he can fuck off.

That’s what Pat texts Jonny: _fuck off_

Pat tells himself it could be construed as a question, like “Where did you fuck off to?” or a bold, edgy, creative insult “Fuck the fuck off!”

He kind of hopes Jonny reads it the first way.

Jonny texts back, immediately. _Sorry but it cant be like that for me_

Pat throws his phone down. It doesn’t break, but he wishes it had. A shattered screen would have been satisfying (although, a trip to the Apple Store, not so much.) He falls back onto his bed and breathes deeply, smelling Jonny, before standing up, again, a little too quickly.

He needs to eat, he needs to pack, and he needs to get to his flight, on time, preferably. He stretches a little, trying to ignore the pain in his back and, _fuck,_ in his ass.

When he returns to the kitchen, Pat’s surprised to see that Jonny’s made coffee and eaten, his dirty cereal bowl sitting in the sink. Pat’s Bible is on the counter. It’s closed, which is weird because he’s sure it was open the night before. He walks over to it.

Maybe, God…

Maybe God can help him sort this shit out. God’s supposed to be good at that. He’s supposed to be able to guide and protect Pat, to, like, show Pat the way or some shit. He runs a thumb down the cover of the book.

Last night, Erica had been really disparaging of Pat’s new faith and Jonny, well, Jonny’s always had issues about Pat and God. And, as much as Pat loves them, Pat hates their God-hate, mostly because it’s confusing shit up for him. He wants everything to fit, to make sense, to work out like it’s supposed to.

He opens the Bible and prays for _something_.

It opens to the passage he’d read yesterday morning, a psalm.

“Create in me a clean heart, O God,

And put a new and right spirit within me

Do not cast me away from your presence,

And do not take your holy spirit from me.

The words had felt so important, so apt, when he’d first read them. Now, their meaning seems blurred, almost insensible.

He closes his eyes and then opens them again. That’s when he sees it, the note. It’s written on a sheet of paper from the grocery pad stuck to Pat’s fridge.  It’s in Jonny’s messy scrawl and reads:

_Honey, we’re out of:_

_You need to figure out what the hell you want. One second I think it’s great, then the next it’s shit. If this is against your religion, I don’t want to do it. You act like you hate that you like me._

_Sorry. See you later._

That’s it.

Fuck Jonny. Fuck him, if he’s gonna confess (sort of, almost) his love and then leave a shitty little note like this on Pat’s goddamn counter. Fuck him, if he’s going to just fucking bow out without out even a good fucking bye.

Pat looks back down at the Bible passage and suddenly the meaning is clear to him again. It’s a sign. He was on the right path before this little misstep with Jonny. He was on the right path and he needs to fucking stay there.

He grabs his phone and shoots Amy a text with his flight details. He hopes she’ll be able to pick him up. Then, he texts Erica _: you give the worst advice fuck you_

 

 

When Pat returns home, he does his best to forget the whole mess with Jonny. It’s not hard because, for the most part, his life is busy and going well.

Dating’s pretty great. Amy’s pretty great. Jesus is really great.

He’s got everything all sorted out.

Sure, Erica’s not talking to him. But what the hell ever, she’s the one who screwed shit up for him before.

Sure, usually he feels like Amy’s just another sister, a sister with slightly different expectations (that may or may not include marriage someday- what the hell is ‘courting’ anyway?)

But Pat _does_ want to get married. And why shouldn’t it be to a beautiful, smart girl who reminds him of sisters? If he has to spend the rest of his life with a woman he may as well like her as much as (and in mostly the same way as) he likes his sisters. His sisters would make good moms. (Maybe not as good of moms as Jonny would be as a dad. But the thought is irrelevant and Pat dismisses it. Pat would be the dad, so he needs to be looking for a _mom_.)

 So, with marriage and blonde babies like Madelyn Sharp in the back of his mind, in August, Pat redoubles his efforts with Amy. They make it ‘official,’ going as far as changing their Facebook statuses and introducing one another to family. Jess and Jacquie love Amy. Even Erica is kind to her.

~

The third Wednesday in August, Pat invites Amy out to the Lakefront after worship. It’s the last time he’ll see her for a while, as she’s moving to Chicago that weekend.

When he’d offered to fly out with her, to help move her stuff and get her acquainted with the city, she’d laughed. Apparently, she didn’t want to start out her academic career as the Chicago Blackhawk’s Star Forward Patrick Kane’s girlfriend.  This is strange to Pat. Most girls love that shit.

The night’s a little chilly, especially on the water, but Pat doesn’t comment. He’s tough.

Amy says, “I’m so nervous.”

Pat nods. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come? Or to call some of my friends? I’m sure some of the guys would help you move boxes or furniture or whatever.”

Amy laughs. “Pat, no. Oh my gosh, how mortifying would that be.”

“You’d be cool,” Pat assures her. She so would be. He tries not to pout. Then he says, “So are you, like, not going to tell people about us?”

He’s been in a secret relationship before and he didn’t like it. Actually, part of the reason why he likes being with Amy is that he _can_ talk about her with people.

“Yeah, I’ll tell people. I just don’t want to advertise it. I don’t want it to be the first thing people know about me.”

She’s stopped walking and is looking out at the water.

Pat says, “You don’t even like hockey, do you?”

She laughs, but doesn’t answer. Maybe that’s okay. His last relationship (can he call it a relationship?) was a little too entangled with his hockey life. This is the opposite. Maybe it’ll be better.

Still, “You’ll come out with me and my friends, right? I can tell them about you? They’ll want to meet you.”

“Like Jonny?” She asks it casually and it probably is casual for her. But the thing is, Pat has never mentioned Jonny to her, not once. Pat’s avoided bringing Jonny up at all this summer to anyone here in Buffalo, but he very specifically has avoided it with Amy. For some reason, the idea of her knowing _anything_ about him and Jonny feels like it will inevitably lead to her somehow figuring out _everything_ about him and Jonny.

When Pat doesn’t answer, Amy prompts, “He’s your best friend, right?”

Pat shrugs and then answers, sort of honestly, “I’m closer to Sharpy, erm Patrick Sharp.”

Amy watches him. “You room with Jonny, though, on the road, right? And he spent Christmas with your family last year. I saw the pictures.”

Pat swallows. He really, really doesn’t want to talk about Jonny. He tells her, “We used to be closer than we are now. We had a disagreement, sort of. Anyway, it’s stupid. Jonny’s stupid and I don’t want to talk about it.”

Amy looks surprised. “Will you be okay playing with him again in the fall, if you’re fighting?” She sounds so genuinely concerned about his and Jonny’s relationship and it reminds Pat of how concerned _he_ is about their relationship. Goddamn. This is why he’s been avoiding Erica (although that hasn’t been too difficult since it seems she’s avoiding him as well.)

Pat shrugs again, trying to play it cool, because he has to be, but he has no _idea_ how it’s going to work with him and Jonny.

Amy squeezes his forearm and says, “I’m here, if you want to talk about it.”

That night, their parting kiss, their first kiss ever, actually, is brief and chaste, just a brush of lips on her doorstep. She’s wearing a fruity lip gloss and it reminds Pat of middle school dances. He’s nervous about initiating it, but she gives him a pleased smile afterwards and a promise to keep him appraised of her goings on by text over the next couple of days.

As he climbs back into his car, Pat feels an inexplicable sense of relief. He really, really wants a beer or maybe ten beers, actually.  He passes three different bars on his way home, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he climbs into bed, watches porn, and jerks off, trying, unsuccessfully, not to think about Jonny.

~

Two days after she arrives in Chicago, Amy texts him: _you can come now_

Pat’s in bed when he sees it, already contemplating whether or not he wants to pull one off before he falls asleep. Pat blinks at the text, or rather, the _sext_. It seems so out of character for Amy. They’ve _never_ talked about sex. 

They’ve only held hands and had the _one_ kiss. 

He wonders if maybe Amy is a totally different person than she lets on. Maybe, like Pat, she has a secret life and secret lover and that text was meant for him. _Fuck._

 Pat texts back: _?_

Amy texts: _I miss you and I think it would be okay if you came to Chicago_

Then:  _I wish you were here_

Pat lets the phone fall out of his hands and onto the sheets. Of course, that’s what she meant. Of course she doesn’t have a secret kinky sex life. Fuck, Pat is so fucked up.

Pat texts back: _I dont want to mess up ur game_

Amy’s reply is immediate: _But I want you here_

Pat shifts in the sheets. He’s not ready to go back to Chicago, not yet. He’s kind of looking forward to spend the next few weeks training in Buffalo by himself.

He replies: _sry babe ill be there by oct_

 

 

Pat amps up his training in September. His summer days have taken on a pattern, a rhythm, that he’s never been able to find outside of the season before. He’s traveled less, partied less, and, instead, put all his energy into being a better person and, now, a better hockey player.

Mostly, he likes the changes. He’s excited for the guys to see the new Pat, to play with him. He’s anticipating some jeering, comments about him settling down, becoming a boring old man. But they can take their mocking and shove it up their asses when he’s overtaking Crosby on the league leaderboard.

The whisperings of a potential lockout are getting louder, which makes Pat nervous. He’s not sure he can _not_ play hockey for a whole season. And he’s afraid that if they’re locked out, he’ll lose everything he’s worked for all summer.

He fields a series of calls in the second week of September, from friends, from Blackhawks staff, from his agent, all wondering about the potential of a lockout and what Pat’s response to it would be. Would he stick around Chicago? Would he play overseas? Would he want to join in the negotiations?

_Fuck._

Every call puts him more on edge. He wants to know what’s happening. He needs to plan, to prepare for the outcome. And, the thing is, he knows who knows what’s going down.

Jonny.

They still haven’t spoken at all. Actually, Jonny’s sent out two messages to the team, one over email and one over text, both attempts at settling people’s anxiety over the potential of a lockout and encouraging folks to come on back to Chicago to resettle in for the season. Pat had gotten both, but responded to neither.

If Pat texted him, Jonny’d probably answer. He’s never ignored Pat, not about anything hockey related (minus that fucking concussion mess, goddamn him). He’s the captain; it’s kind of his job.

~

Pat’s just finished up a run, an ugly, painful, shitty little run which he shouldn’t have tried, not with his legs still aching from all the lifting he’d done with his trainer yesterday, when Jonny’s face appears on the screen of his phone. Pat’s sweaty, fingers too wet to swipe open the call on the first try, and so fucking hungry, but he answers anyway. Because he wants an update on the lockout, not because he’s eager to hear Jonny’s voice.

“Jonny?” He sounds out of breath. Of course he fucking does. He just finished running, but Jonny might think…

He shouldn’t give a fuck what Jonny thinks.

Jonny says, “Hey Pat.” He sounds happy, tentative but happy. Pat pictures him smiling.

“What up, man?”

“Are you back in Chicago?” 

That’s not the question Pat expected. “Still in Buffalo.”

There’s a pause and then Jonny explains, “Oh, because Sharpy thought, because your girlfriend’s here, or something, that you might be back.”

“She uh didn’t,” Pat begins and then decides that he definitely doesn’t want Jonny to know that Amy didn’t want him there for her move in. That’d sound bad, probably, make it look like they weren’t serious. And Pat needs Jonny to believe that he and Amy are serious. “I’m still at home,” he finishes.

There’s another long pause and Pat tries to guess at why in the world Jonny’s calling him after all these weeks of silence. It would be weird and confusing if the reason he called was just to figure out if Pat was in Chicago, spending time with his girlfriend.

Weird and confusing, but, Pat thinks as he feels himself smiling, maybe weird and confusing in a good way.

Finally, Jonny asks, “When are you coming?” Then he quickly adds. “Sharpy wanted me to ask.”

Which, that’s a lie, because Pat and Sharpy had exchanged texts earlier that day. (Pat had texted Sharpy a picture of the hot dog he was eating with caption, “My hot dog is bigger than yours.”

To which Sharpy had (lamely) sent back a picture of Madelyn and Shooter with the caption, “My hot dog is cuter than yours.”)

Pat tells Jonny, “I haven’t decided yet. I keep hearing that the lockout is probably a go.”

Jonny says, “I would have thought with your routine shit, the sooner you’re back in Chicago the better. Cause you wouldn’t want to start the season out of whack or whatever.”

Pat’s been standing, leaning on his stationary bike. He decides this conversation is clearly going to take longer than expected and so he sits. “Jonny, you’ve been thinking about me,” he teases.

Immediately he regrets it. It’s too soon.  What if Jonny thinks he’s flirting?

Jonny says, “Come to Chicago, you asshole.  We’re going to probably try to rent some ice next week, if things still haven’t come together, I mean, and start practicing.”

“Okay,” Pat tells him. “I’ll come.”

“Thank fuck, Pat. It’s lonely here without you,” Jonny says. The statement throws Pat because he’s pretty sure Jonny’s broken it off with him, like, for good.

Pat doesn’t reply because he doesn’t know what to say.

Jonny says, “I mean, there’s really no one to challenge me, on the ice.”

“Sounds lonely,” Pat agrees because, actually, it kind of does.

 

 

It’s Friday and the guys, like six from the team and two others up from Rockford, are all out for dinner at this place Duncs really likes. Pat’s been in Chicago for a week. He’s seen Amy once, Sharpy three times and Jonny six fucking times.

Four of those times involved some kind of workout and the other two involved a larger group of people, but still. He’s definitely seen Jonny more than anyone else. They’re seated beside one another, right now, and, every few minutes Jonny’s elbow brushes Pat’s.

The table is loud, most of the guys pretending to be totally invested in the baseball game on TV. It might be the World Series. Pat hasn’t been keeping up.

Jonny steals a fry off Pat’s plate.  He says, “Pat, are you going to stick around, if, you know...?”

Pat licks his lips and tries not to look back at Jonny. He hates the question and hates Jonny a little for asking it.  The answer is complicated, still forming somewhere in the back of his mind.

He says, “I don’t know. What about you?”

Jonny’s answer is immediate, “I’m going to stay. I’m going to try to fix things. I don’t think it’ll last too long, not long enough to be worth leaving.”

Pat frowns at the table, “How can you know?”

Jonny shrugs. “Nobody _wants_ a lockout.”

Pat says, “It’s happened before.”

“Hopefully, we’ve learned our lesson.”

Pat takes a gulp of water. He’s pretty sure nobody’s learned any fucking lessons. If they had, then the whole mess would have been sorted out months ago. Fucking stupid shit, if you ask him.

Jonny says, “How’s Amy?”

Pat smiles. He’s happy Jonny remembered her name. “Good,” Pat tells him.

They’re quiet for a moment. Jonny says, “And you’re happy with her? You’re really happy with her?”

He sounds partly disbelieving and partly hopeful.  Pat wonders what he’s hoping for, what answer would make him happy.

He is happy, so he nods. “Yeah, I guess.”

Jonny nods. “You’re looking the best I’ve ever seen you on the ice, so something must be working.” His words are clipped and his smile is thin. His stoniness is confusing the hell out of Patrick. Why can’t he just be upfront with how he’s feeling? Why can’t he just _say_?

It’s like, Jonny clearly _feels_ things super deeply, with his whole body, but he seems to go to great lengths to hide them from Pat. On the ice, everything inside Jonny is always right there- out in the open for everyone to see. But as soon as his skates and pads are off, he’s cool and solid and hidden.

The other guys think it’s because he’s got it together. Pat knows him better than that.

~

Amy first meets some of his teammates in early October. A lockout’s officially begun, but hopes are high. Most of the guys are in Chicago, waiting for things to get tied up so the season can begin. Jonny promises it won’t be long.

Fuck him. Any length of time is too long for Patrick, at least at this point.

Shapry and Abby invite him and Amy over for dinner, a couples night, which is perfect. Pat assumes, when Sharpy texts him the invitation, that it’ll be just the four of them (and maybe, hopefully, Madelyn?).

But when they ring the doorbell, some tall blonde model type that Pat’s never met opens the door. She says, “You must be Pat and Amy.”

Her teeth are very white and she’s very cheerful. Later, he realizes that she’s Jonny’s date or something and, even though she stays the whole evening, Pat never does catch her name.

Jonny joins the three of them at the door almost immediately and then ushers them into the kitchen, introducing himself to Amy with a smile. He asks her about her family, which is exactly the right question, and she’s off, chattering away. Jonny nods, as though whatever story she’s telling is very, very interesting and hands her a glass of white wine (which she doesn’t refuse, but doesn’t actually drink, either).

Pat watches, absently, impressed with how perfectly charming Jonny’s being. He’s always polite, but often to the point of being a bore. Tonight, however, from the way Amy’s giggling, he’s apparently pulled some charm out of nowhere.

Jonny’s wearing a blue button up. Pat had picked it up for him last fall, when he’d been out on his own shopping extravaganza because he knew how much Jonny hated department stores. It looks good on him, though it’s hanging a little loose across his chest. Jonny’d lost a lot of weight, out with that concussion, and he seems to have yet to put it all back on.

Handing Pat an ice tea, Sharpy says, “She’s really cute, Pat. Good catch.”

Pat looks at Amy and thinks, _she’s okay_ , and fuck, here he is, in his best friend’s kitchen mooning over someone who is definitely not his girlfriend while said girlfriend also stands directly in his line of sight, looking objectively gorgeous.

Abby says, “How’d you guys meet?”

Pat laughs. “At church.”

Sharpy waggles his eyebrows. “Is it true what they say? That church girls are super kinky in the sack?”

Pat frowns. “Ummm….” He doesn’t have the answer. He literally has no idea how Amy would be in the bedroom. Probably pretty boring. She probably wouldn’t enjoy biting or taking it up the ass or coming all over his chest.

Abby says, “You don’t have to tell us anything.  Patrick is just being an asshole.”

Sharpy barks out a laugh, eyes intent on Pat. _Fuck_. “Don’t worry, Abs. I doubt they’ve done the deed. He’d have already found a way to brag about it if he did. She must be a real keeper, if she’s not even putting out, eh?”

Madelyn, who’s across the room in her high chair, throws her entire bowl of cereal on the ground. Pat watches Jonny look up and across the room at her, smiling, huge and bright.

Pat can’t help but smile, too.

Abby says, “I’m glad you’ve finally found someone, Pat. I worry about you.”

~

Now, that they’re both armed with girlfriends (or at least, Pat thinks Jonny keeps seeing that one chick, though he never says as much), Pat and Jonny _do_ things together again. They go to the gym. They skate. They eat. They play video games. It’s like old times, but safer. Mostly.

The main difference is: they don’t really talk to each other.

Or look at each other.

Okay, so it’s a little awkward trying to eat a meal, sitting across from one another, without saying a word or even looking up.  Usually, their phones are out, and they’re scrolling through twitter feeds or old emails.

And maybe it’s not the easiest thing to kick Jonny’s ass at Mortal Kombat without a breath of trash talk, but Pat manages. (Actually, the first time they’d played, in early October, Pat had started in on him right away. “You like that? You like getting your ass handed to you?” And Jonny had replied, “Get fucked.” To which Pat had shot back, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to get fucked?” Jonny’d grunted, shifting awkwardly in his armchair and losing the match prematurely. They hadn’t spoken during a game since.)

For the most part, Pat’s happy to spend time with Jonny again. Happy to see him. Happy be near him. Happy to cook for him. Happy to steal food off his plate.  Happy to touch him.

And there’s a lot of touching. Pat tries not to think about how much touching there is.

When they eat, Jonny will set his foot down so it presses up against Pat’s. Sometimes, Pat won’t even feel it through his shoe, but when he goes to move, he’ll discover he’s trapped. Once, on stools at Pat’s kitchen counter, Jonny’d run a socked toe down the outside of Pat’s leg, making Pat instanteously hard.

After that Pat had almost called the whole thing off, kicked Jonny out and suggested they stop playing at friends. But when, instead of pressing further, Jonny had pulled his whole body away and sighed, never looking up from the newspaper, Pat had decided to let it go.

So, they’re friends and that’s good.

~

Pat’s over at Jonny’s for a meal, after they’ve been at the gym together all afternoon. He has a date with Amy later, a play or an orchestra concert or something.

Jonny’s ordered them Chinese, something spicy with noodles and veggies and shrimp. He dumps half of it on a plate for Pat and eats from the box himself.

At Pat’s raised eyebrows, he says, “Less dishes.”

To which Pat replies, “Lazy ass.”

They sit on the couch and watch television, some wilderness program where a man researches (fights) wild animals. Pat whines at Jonny to change the channel to Friends. Jonny glares at him.

Pat finishes his meal first and he’s still hungry. He scoots closer to Jonny and reaches his fork into the cardboard container, digging up a couple of noodles.

“Pat,” Jonny says, his voice tight.

Pat steels his resolve not to look at him. That’s not how they are anymore and it’s totally cool. “Yes?”

“You’ve got to stop.”

Pat set his fork down on the coffee table with a clang. Jonny follows suit with his now empty Chinese food container.  

“Are you listening to me?” Jonny asks.

What the hell else would Pat be doing?

Jonny turns his whole body toward Pat who tries not to flinch. “It’s not fair. I wrote that note, asking you to make up your mind.”

“What note?” Pat asks. Then he remembers, tucked in his Bible, Jonny’s cryptic message, the night after they’d fucked at the Convention. “Nevermind. I remember. Like, what the fuck was that note supposed to mean, anyway?”

“You do this thing, where one second you treat me like I’m your favorite person. You do shit like eat off my plate and smile at me. And the next second, it’s all no homo and I have a girlfriend.”

Pat wants something to drink. He thinks about the bottle of fine-ass tequila he’d left in Jonny’s cabinet last winter and wonders if it’s still there. He says, “I smile at you? I’m so fucking sorry for _smiling_ at you.”

He turns to Jonny, really looking at him, meeting his eye straight on. It’s the first time he’s allowed his gaze to linger like this, off the ice, in months. And he grins his cheesiest, fakest grin.

Jonny closes his eyes and clenches his fist. “This is not a fucking joke,” he says.

Jonny looks good, skin blotchy red with anger. The longer Pat watches at Jonny, the more appealing Jonny becomes.

Jonny opens his eyes again. He has really fucking nice eyes. “What the hell do you want from me, Pat?”

Pat kisses him because what he wants is Jonny’s lips on his. He wants Jonny’s hands in his hair. He wants Jonny’s dick up his ass.

Jonny doesn’t stop him, but he also doesn’t kiss back. When Pat pulls away, Jonny stands and says, “No. I can’t be your sex on the side.”

Pat, feeling clever, shoots back, “What do _you_ want, Jonny?”

Jonny answers immediately, almost as though he were expecting the question. “I want to fuck you. Then, I want you to stay the night, so that we can wake each other up in the morning with blowjobs.”  
Pat’s glad to hear they’re on the same page.

Jonny continues, “I want you to move in with me. To be my… partner.” The word sounds awkward, but Pat’s glad he didn’t say ‘boyfriend.’ “I want you to cook me dinner, like before, and I can clean up. I want to leave marks all over you during sex and then look over in the locker room and see you, smirking and _proud_ of them.”

It’s too much, suddenly.  Pat’s head feels like it’s filling up with steam. He can’t listen to Jonny. He knows this is important. Fuck, Jonny’s saying exactly what part of Pat wants to hear, has _always_ wanted to hear. But he can’t listen.

“Stop,” Pat tells him. “Stop.”

Jonny’s face, which had remained flushed, but softened to something close to affection during his little monologue, hardens. “Yeah?”

“I don’t know. I need to think,” Pat tells him, battling twin urges to throw himself at Jonny and to punch him.

He doesn’t do either. He flees.

~

Two days later he decides he’s gotta play hockey, even if it means moving to fucking Switzerland. Nobody supports his decision fully, not his family, not Amy, not Jonny.

Well, he doesn’t really know if Jonny supports it because he’s not speaking to Jonny or reading his texts or answering his calls. Or he wouldn’t be, if Jonny were speaking to him or texting him or calling him. (He’s not.) But he assumes Jonny’s not supportive. Just last week, he’d been trying to convince Pat to stay in Chicago or to help with the negotiations.  

But it’s the decision that had to be made. It’s what Pat needs right now, to be far, far away from Chicago and Jonny and all that shit.

An ocean, a goddamn ten hour plane ride- that seems far enough.

 

 

At first, Pat’s pumped Seguin’s coming, too. Having another North American NHL player on his team seems incredibly important.

However, he realizes the problem with Seguin right away. The kid’s a partier. And, like, Pat _knows_ about partying. He, himself, is world class partier, or rather, he _was_ a world class partier.

Since Madison, Pat’s been so good, staying sober and celibate, and _behaving_ has been good for his game and his relationships. But it’s hard to go out, night after night, and _not_ drink, especially with the looks his new teammates send him.

So, with the ends of making friends, Pat decides he might as well give in. He can clean it up again when he goes home. Jonny and Amy will keep him in line.

Five days after he arrives, he shows up for his 10pm Skype date with his parents drunk as shit. He gets back to the apartment at nine-thirty, still a half an hour till they’ll call, but he’s been drinking since practice ended at 4pm and it’s the first time he’s gotten this bad in a long time.

He knows he should probably just cancel, but Seguin’s hooking up with some random chick and Pat’s sad and he misses his family. He’s pretty sure he’s not going to enjoy his time here, after all.

The guys on the team are nice, but they make him miss home, the Blackhawks, _Jonny_ more than ever. They’re so similar, but so not the same.

He opens up a fresh email, and types in Jonny’s address.

He’s got a lot of things he wants to say to Jonny. He’s sort of been composing a list in his head. He should definitely send it. But with the keyboard swimming in front of him, he’s having trouble remember everything on it, let alone getting anything out sensibly.  There’s one thing though, that he remembers with great clarity.

He needs Jonny to finish what he was saying. He needs Jonny to tell him everything he wants. That would be very helpful. Then Pat could decide if those were things that he wants, too.

He types out:

Jonny,

What do you want?

Love,

Pat

It’s nice, actually, short, sweet, and to the point. It’s even grammatically correct, as far as he can tell. He’s pretty sure that there’s nothing he will regret in the morning. So he hits send.

He really fucking misses Jonny. He tries to picture him, but in all the memories that pop up, his hair looks stupid and his smile’s not quite right.

So Pat does something he’d banned himself from doing his rookie year: he Google image searches _Jonathan Toews_.

He finds a shirtless picture in which Jonny’s abs have certainly been digitally enhanced. _The Speed Machine_ , it calls him. _Bullshit._ Pat’s so much faster. Pat finds himself trying to see if he can see the outline of his cock in the folds of Jonny’s basketball shorts.

He’s just decided he’s found it, when his parents’ call pops up on his screen. He clicks away from the image quickly and answers.

His mom is wearing his home jersey and his dad’s in a white Blackhawks pullover. They’re both smiling.

His mom says, “You look flushed, sweetie.”

His dad adds, “You okay, Buzz?”

Pat nods, but suddenly, from nowhere, he feels tears prick from behind his eyes. He’s spent so much of his life away from home. He’s pretty sure he’s immune to homesickness, at this point. But that’s what this _ache_ feels like. It reminds him of his first few months in Michigan.

His mom frowns. “I was thinking, I’ve always wanted to visit Switzerland.”

Pat gasps in a breath of air. “You should come.” He doesn’t even feel guilty about asking for it. He _needs_ his mom.

She nods and it’s decided.

~

It’s not like he’s waiting for an answer or anything, but he never hears back from Jonny. He checks a few days later and, yes, the message’s definitely sent and, according to his email, it’s also been opened.

~

In the middle of November, on a day off, Pat goes out to a late lunch with his mom. She wants to take the afternoon to visit churches and cathedrals. She’s already seen most of them, but she assures Pat that they’re worth his afternoon as well.

They’ve found this place that makes pizza, like _American, New York,_ style pizza with actual pepperonis. It’s a tiny place, and Pat’s legs barely fit under the wrought iron table at which they’re sat. Luckily, it’s pretty empty, just one other couple in the shop, already finishing up their sandwiches when Pat and his mom arrive.

As soon as the pizza is dished out, Pat’s mom hits him with it. He’s certain she’s been holding onto the question for months and, now, she’s got him backed into a corner. She says, “What happened with you and Jonny?”

Pat takes a bite of pizza and considers how to answer. He decides to assume she’s curious about what happened to their friendship.

Pat says, honestly, “Things haven’t been the same since his concussion.”

His mother nods. “I know, hon. I’m not stupid. Why? What happened? Did he do something to you?”

Pat’s eyes widen. “What do you mean? Did he sleep with my girl or something?”

“Patrick,” she says. Her eyes are narrowed and she’s leaning forward, pizza forgotten.

“We’ve worked it out, mostly,” he tells her. “We’re in good place.”

“You’ve worked it out?” She repeats, now openly disbelieving.

He nods. He doesn’t owe her an explanation. She’s certainly never asked for one before. Actually, now he’s getting pissed.

If she does know, like, about him and Jonny, why the hell didn’t she say something sooner? Why didn’t she tell him she knew? Why didn’t she tell him she _cared_?

She says, “I know you were seeing each other. And now you’re not.”

“Seeing each other?” It’s Pat’s turn to repeat. Then he says, “What does that even mean?”

She flushes. “You were, like, sleeping together.”

Pat sets his fork down. “No,” he tells her.

“You were. I thought so, maybe and then Andrée confirmed it.” His mom takes a small bite of pizza.

Pat considers this. “How did Andrée know?”

Pat’s mom shrugs and says, “So it’s true?”

Pat throws himself back in his chair, irritated that he’d confirmed it without realizing. But, well, “Yeah, it’s true. We were together, sort of, a while back.”

“I like Jonathan,” his mother tells him, apropos of nothing.

Why isn’t she freaking out? She’s just found that her only son is gay. He’s in the NHL and he’s gay and he’s been sleeping with his best friend and teammate, also in the NHL, his fucking captain. Pat’s certainly freaking out.

But, no, all his mother has to say is, “Really, Jonathan’s a very nice young man.” What the fuck.

“Mom,” Pat says. “We’re not… I’m not doing that anymore. I’ve, well, I’m working on fixing it. I’m with Amy, now.”

His mom says, “Fixing what? You’re relationship with Jonathan?”  And then, “By dating Jess’ friend?”

Her bewilderment confuses Pat. “Mom,” he says. “Not my… I’m working on fixing my, um, drive to do that shit with guys or whatever.”

His mom’s eyes bug out and, then, suddenly, fill with tears. She reaches across the table for his hand. “You’re okay,” she says.

He jerks free. “I know I’m fucking okay.”

“Don’t cuss at me, Patrick,” she says.

“Don’t patronize me, not about this.” He thinks about Erica, about all the years she was the only person who knew anything.

“I want you to be happy,” his mom tells him. “You were happy with Jonathan. That much was so clear at Christmas. You were wonderful together.”

Pat buries his face in his hands. He’s never felt _more_ misunderstood. Like, he knows she’s trying to be helpful, but this is so _not_ about Jonny.

“It’s not like, I can’t just fix my relationship with Jonny and then everything will be okay. It’s so much more complicated than that. Jonny’s not a girl.” 

His mother frowns. “You love him, right?”

“Mom, stop,” he says. Maybe he does love Jonny but right now, that’s not what’s important.

“I don’t see what the—“

“I’m gay,” Pat cuts her off, a little too loudly. The restaurant is empty now and the server, sitting in a chair near the kitchen doesn’t even look up from her magazine. He’s lucky people don’t recognize him here, not like they do in Chicago.

Still, he buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t want to look at his mom.

“Pat, you’re okay,” she says, again.

Pat shakes his head. He’s not okay.

“That settles it, we’re going to Mass.” She’s digging in her purse for the credit card.

Okay, he thinks. Mass sounds comforting, like a homecooked meal or something. He hasn’t been in ages and he begins to imagine the incense wafting around the gospel and out into the sanctuary.

“I’m not sure we’ll find one in English tonight,” Pat tells her.

She shrugs, standing and tucking her chair in. They haven’t finished the pizza, but Pat’s not hungry. He’ll probably regret it later, but he follows her to the register and then out onto the street.

Pat’s mom leads him to the grand cathedral in the center of town. Pat’s passed by it before but he’s never been inside. The next mass starts in fifteen minutes and they wander a bit before choosing a pew.

As they stand in front of an image of Veronica, wiping Jesus brow as he carries the cross, Pat says, “I’ve prayed before. It’s never gone away.”

“God isn’t Santa Claus, Pat. We don’t pray for things like that. We pray for strength and guidance,” she says, simply and with certainty.

Pat stills.

At Jess’ church, _his_ church now, they pray for a relationship with Christ, for forgiveness, for grace.

Growing up he’d prayed for things, too, for a win, for healing, for normality.

Pray for strength.

He says, “I don’t know what that would be like, having strength from God. What would that even mean?”

Pat’s mom shrugs. “You’ll know. You’ll feel it, soon. I’m praying, too.”

Throughout the whole mass, Pat’s thinking about strength. He’s thinks about strength training at the gym, building muscles. He thinks about the strength it takes to push through a game with extra minutes or longer shifts. He thinks about the strength of will it’s taken to stay away from Jonny. All these types of strength, he already has, in spades, and his life, being gay, isn’t any easier.

He hopes the strength his mother is speaking of is something entirely different, something he doesn’t yet have. And he prays for it.

~

Pat and his mom don’t talk about that afternoon, again. He thinks they’re waiting. Maybe for God.

Maybe for Jonny.

 

 

When Pat comes home for Christmas, he only has three voicemails on his American phone. One from the dentist (he’d forgotten to cancel his annual cleaning), a drunk dial from a high school friend, and one from Jonny.

Pat’s heart skips, literally _skips_ , a goddamn beat at the sound of Jonny’s voice. 

“Hey, Pat. Got your email. You probably don’t have your phone on you overseas or whatever, but I can’t—I’m not ready to write this down. It’s not like we can really do anything about anything while you’re gone, anyway.” There’s a long pause, so long that Pat thinks he might have hung up.

Then he hears Jonny blow out a deep breath and start again, “I want a lot of things, too many things, probably. But, mostly, I want you to love me. Because, yeah.”

Another pause.

“Because I love you.”

Another pause. This one drags on a while, before there’s a shuffle and a click and an electronic voice asking if Pat would like to delete the message. 

He saves it. And listens to again later that night. And then again the next morning. And the one after that.

By the end of the trip, it’s become part of his routine, listening to the message first thing in the morning and again, right before he falls asleep at night.

He doesn’t see Jonny or even talk to him, but he’s part of several mass texts he sends about the lockout, which, hopefully will be coming to a close very, very soon.

Pat can’t decide if that’ll be too soon, or not soon enough.

 

 

Amy visits Switzerland over the New Year, while she’s on break. She doesn’t stay with Pat. She rents her own hotel room, to keep everything proper.

They do a lot of sightseeing. She likes museums and churches and expensive restaurants. Pat’s glad his mother had made a list of what she’d done and how well she’d liked it because, using her suggestions, Pat impresses Amy with his prowess as a Swiss tour guide.

They kiss once, on a bridge, in the moonlight, hand’s clasped between them. For the rest of the trip, Amy doesn’t stop gushing about how perfect of a _moment_ it had been.

Pat thinks about his kisses with Jonny. They have nothing that compares. Nothing public or planned or _perfect_ at all. And, yet, when Pat imagines curling around Jonny in bed, body aching from a hard-played game, pressing his lips into Jonny’s shoulder and neck, he knows he’ll never experience any better _moment_ than that. 

The thought makes his jaw stiffen and his heart _ache_. He’s not sure how long he’ll last with Amy. They’re supposed to be looking toward marriage, toward forever. But Pat’s certain of one thing, his happiest forever wouldn’t be with her.

 

 

Pat finds out about the end of the lockout from Seguin, who’s just seen it on twitter. His bags are already packed, as he’d never fully unpacked after Christmas.

He brings a book and four magazines on the plane for the flight home. He doesn’t read a word. No, he spends the entire flight thinking about what it’ll be like to see Jonny, especially after a few weeks of listening to that terrible-wonderful voicemail (at least) twice a day. The person seated next to him keeps glaring at his jittering leg, but Pat can’t help it. So he glares back a fuck the hell off.

Pat’s tired when he arrives in Chicago, but he wouldn’t miss the first team dinner back for anything, so he goes and tries not to fall asleep in his steak.

The first person he sees at the restaurant is Madelyn Sharp, bouncing on her dad’s knee, and he knows he’s made the right choice. That is, he assumes he’s made the right choice until he sees Jonny several seats down from him talking to Duncs, not meeting Pat’s eyes, not even when Duncs interrupts their conversation to shout a hello.

Jonny finds Pat in the bathroom, toward the end of meal, tucking his dick back in his pants. He says, “You got my message?”

Pat nods.

Jonny says, “Okay?” Jonny waits, watching him. He’s standing back, several feet away, body and face closed off. Instinctively, Pat wants him closer, but he supposes it’s easier this way.

“I got it. I’m not sure…. Yeah, I’m still just not sure.”

Jonny closes his eyes and blows out a breath. “Okay,” he says, nodding. “Okay. We’ll just play it cool, then. But I’m, um, not sure how friendly I can be.”

Pat nods because he knows exactly what Jonny means, or, at least, Pat knows he’s not sure he could control himself, if they were to stay friends. “Yeah.”

He turns to wash his hands at the sink. By the time he’s finished up, Jonny’s gone. Then, when he returns to the table, Sharpy tells him that Jonny went home, that he’d wanted to turn in early.

The thought of Jonny going home to his empty apartment and lying down in his bed, without Pat, is a terrible one. Objectively, Pat knows he does it every night, has for a long time, but for some reason, tonight, it feels wrong. Pat may have made a mistake. He’s such a fuck-up.

~

Once the season starts, he doesn’t have much time for romance, not with Jonny or Amy.

He’s grateful they finally have their own space on the road. If just the thought of Jonny sleeping alone makes Pat lonely in turn, he’s certain that if he were confronted by it, in the bed beside him, he’d sneak over and crawl in.

~

They’re playing well, Pat especially.

His focus during the offseason has been unprecedented and his partying has slowed to nil. The changes are paying out in huge ways.

He thinks he may be about to have the best season of his life.

~

Amy calls one night during their roadtrip. Pat has told her afternoons were better, but sometimes, with her classes, the scheduling just doesn’t work out.

It’s late, after a game they’d lost in overtime, and Pat’s exhausted. He’s just finished up a meal with Seabs and Hossa, dissecting some stupid ass shit the other team’s defense kept trying to pull with them, and now that he’s full and showered and wearing sweats all he wants is sleep.

Amy’s in a chatty mood, however, with lots of stories to tell about her day and her internship and her friend and her friend’s boyfriend who used to play hockey in high school. He was actually pretty good and super into the Blackhawks. Today he was telling her all kinds of things about Pat’s play about how amazing Pat’s eyes were. He can really _see_ things. And does Pat think this is his gift? Pat? Pat?

He shakes himself awake, realizing that he’s been mostly asleep for several minutes and that, now, Amy’s trying to get his attention.

“Sorry, babe,” he says. “Just sleepy.”

Amy says, “You’re so busy. You’re always so busy. I hate this.”

Pat frowns. She sounds really distraught, more distraught than one poorly attentive phone call deserves. Like, maybe she’s been thinking about how hard this shit is for a while. That surprises him, because she hadn’t said anything.

Amy says, “I feel really distant from you. Like, there’s whole chunks of you that I don’t know.”

Of course there are. So Pat says, “Of course there are.”

“What?” She sounds caught off guard. “I’m not okay with that. If we’re going to get married, we have to know all each other’s secrets.”

“I haven’t agreed to marry you,” Pat shoots back.

“What?”

“You heard me. We’re not engaged.”

“If we’re not going to get married, then what are we even doing, Pat?”

Pat frowns. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? If you did know, what would say?”

Pat thinks about it. He’s too fucking tired for this. He says, “I can’t do this right now. Can we talk about this later?”

“Tomorrow afternoon? I have class until three and then I’m free all evening.”

Pat thinks through his schedule. They’re travelling and he’s not quite sure what’s happening. “No, I don’t think that’ll work.”

She laughs and it’s an ugly sound, one Pat hasn’t heard before. “Yeah, see, this is the problem. Let’s just wait till you get back.”

Pat sits up in bed. “That’s not for seven days.”

“Yeah, but if this is as serious as it seems, we need to talk in person.”

Pat nods and then says, “Sounds good.”

And it does sound good. The less he has to focus on Amy, the more he can focus on his game and they’re just doing so fucking good. For it to remain that way, it’ll be best to keep all his energy on hockey.

He’s awake then, though, mind now racing from Amy to poor passing to trick shots. It’s too late to go to the gym, so he decides maybe he’ll see what’s on TV.

He opens up the drawer next to his bed, hoping to find a channel guide. Instead, there’s a Bible. He’s been terrible lately, about his devotions. At first, this summer, they’d been awesome, one of the best parts of his day, reconnecting him to that moment in the lake. But lately he just hasn’t had the time, and, on top of that, the payoff’s been poor. Like, he can’t read for ten minutes without getting distracted.

He opens to Ephesians, to his favorite passage, the only one he’s knows chapter and verse. It’s about the armor of God. He remembers hearing as a child and liking it. Then this summer, when he heard it again in a sermon about overcoming life’s obstacles it felt _right._

It’s reminds Pat of putting on his hockey gear. His underarmor, his pads, his sweater, his skates, his stick, perfectly taped. It gets his mind ready, his body ready, to _work._ It protects him, and assists him. It’s essential.

This summer when Pat had rediscovered the passage, he’d been sure that his new faith and all it’s tools, would do the same, that he’d be protected by ‘the shield of faith’ and ‘breastplate of righteousness.’ But, as he thinks about the last couple months, as he thinks about Jonny and about his mother, about Amy and about hockey, he’s not sure this ‘armor’ is doing anything at all.

Except maybe weighing him down.

~

Pat and Amy meet for the last time at her apartment in the South Loop. It’s cold and a little strange, the radiator banging and clanging beside them. Her roommate is talking loudly on the phone in the next room.

They both know what’s coming.

The split is amicable. Pat’s just not ready to be this serious, he tells her, even though it’s not entirely true. And she’s needs someone who’ll invest time into their relationship, not just loads of cash.

Pat hasn’t been back to church with her or Jess since this summer and it feels sad to watch her walk away from the coffee shop. Sad, but right.

 

 

Something’s different about Pat’s play this season. Pat can feel it. Coach can feel it. The whole goddamn team can feel it. Everyone wants him to explain the change. This Pat is not the same Pat the organization was considering trading this summer.

Was he scared into playing better? Did someone sit him down and talk some sense into him? Has he- gasp- grown up? Maybe, Sharpy suggests with a wink, maybe it’s his girlfriend.  

(To this, Pat quickly admits that they’ve broken up. Sharpy’s face goes soft and he immediately offers to get Pat blindingly drunk and be his wingman. This is a terrible plan which Pat turns down. First, Sharpy is the most fail of a wingman ever. No wants to bone Pat if the other option is to stare dreamily at Sharpy’s chissled jaw. Also, Pat’s still trying not drink too much. And, maybe, he’s done pretending to like boning chicks.)

The press’ explanation of Pat’s change is his personal favorite. They keep hinting that his uptick in points has something to do with the fact that he’s stopped wearing a mouthguard. Fuck, yeah.

The truth is that he has no idea what’s different, except for this: the only time the world makes sense is on the ice. On the ice, his confusion about himself, about Jonny, and about God and his mother, all of that completely disappears. The slide of skates, the weight of the puck against his stick, the shout of his boy across the rink, these are things Pat understands. So he immerses himself in the game as often and as wholly as possible.

 

 

Jonny’s chasing Pat in points. Actually, Jonny’s leading in goals, but Pat’s assists more than make up for it. “Year, our Kaner’s learning to be less selfish, on the ice, at least,” Pat hears Jonny tell a reporter who’s hounding him after a game.

Pat flicks him off across the room and Jonny laughs, a choked, surprised sound.

Hearing it loosens something inside Pat’s chest. As he puts on his suit, he begins to hope that maybe they can be friends again. He lines up his tie and looks across the room again. Jonny’s watching him, smiling.

Pat smiles back. It’s a smile that stays with Pat, too.

 

 

They lose on the road to the fucking Avalanche- arguably the worst team in the league. It’s their first loss of the season- the first time they don’t get a point in 24 games.

It’s shouldn’t feel so shitty. They’ve been playing incredibly well. They’ve set fucking records and shit. Nobody does this well. And they say that you can’t win every game.

But, for a while though, it’d felt like they really might have been able to do that, to win every goddamn game. It’d felt like they might’ve done something crazy, like gone undefeated for the season or some shit.

It’s like, at this point, they’d stopped expecting to lose. They’ve been going out every goddamn night assuming they’re going to kill penalties, score goals, duck and dive away from hits, and, most importantly, they’ve been going out assuming they’ll walk away from every single scuffle with a point or two.

So when they finally do lose, the locker room vibe pops like a balloon.

The perfect world Pat’s created for himself on the ice melts around him. As he takes off his skates, this shitty sort of haze settles heavy on him, reminding him that he’s tired and he’s lonely. The shitty feeling takes him all the way back to last season, to Jonny’s concussion, to his hot mess of a streak, to bombing in the playoffs. And then, it’s like he’s sitting in that locker room, not this one.

On the plane ride back to Chicago, he throws on music and tries not to focus on Jonny’s stupid buzz cut sticking up over the seat a few rows ahead of him. Sharpy’s next to him, snoring softly. His iPad is on his lap. Pat’s own is tucked up in the overhead compartment and he’s pretty sure he can guess Sharpy’s password.

He clicks on the screen and sets the tablet on his knees. A picture of Sharpy and Madelyn, laughing, lights up. Pat freezes. 

Pat’s going to go home and slide under his black silk sheets, alone. Sharpy’s going to go home, kiss Maddy on the forehead and then cuddle up to Abby. Pat’s never been more jealous of anyone in his whole life.

Out of the corner of his eye, Pat sees Jonny reach up over his head and stretch his shoulders. He wonders if Jonny wants children. _Fuck._

~

As they climb out of the bus, Pat finds himself following Jonny to his car. Jonny speeds up, but Pat chases. Jonny stops at the door, not opening it. He doesn’t turn around to say, “What are you doing? Why are you following me?”

Pat shrugs. He’s not sure. He licks his lips. He’s has no idea what to say.

“Pat,” Jonny says. “It hasn’t been the best day. I’m going to get into my car and go home, okay?”

Pat asks, “Why can’t we be friends anymore?” What the hell. It’s a stupid question with an answer the Pat doesn’t quite understand, yeah, but it’s also an answer that he doesn’t want to examine.

Jonny turns around, scowling. “Fucking hell, Pat. Why can’t we be friends?! Fuck you.”

Jonny’s looking at him, now, eyes wide, shoulders tense and he’s not turning away. And, yeah, that’s more like it, Pat thinks. That’s what he wanted, all of Jonny’s attention aimed right at him.

Pat shrugs again and Jonny shakes his head and huffs out a loud breath. In the periphery of his vision, Pat can see that Sharpy is watching them. He’s on the phone, leaning up against the door of his stupid sports car, smiling and _watching._

Pat says, “Would you like to play video games or something?”

Jonny turns back to his car, throws his bag into the backseat, and opens the door without answering. Pat rushes around to the passenger door, deciding that if Jonny’s going to be silent, Pat’s just going to read into his behavior the answer he wants. He tosses his own duffle in behind the seat and hops in.

Jonny says, “What are you doing? You have got your own goddamn car. Get the hell out.”

Pat says, “I thought things were getting better between us.”

Jonny’s jaw is set and Pat can tell he’s becoming angrier and angier. “If you don’t feel like driving, why don’t you have your girlfriend pick you up?”

Pat buckles his seatbelt. “We’re not together anymore. I can drive. I just want to hang out with you.”

Jonny sighs and starts the car. “It’s four am. I am going to go home and sleep. I don’t know what the hell you think is going to happen.”

The heavy feeling from the locker room falls over Pat again. He hadn’t realized it’d lifted, but somewhere between the plane and Jonny’s car, he’d begun to feel something else, something lighter, more hopeful.

Pat says, “I miss you.”

Jonny stays quiet, hands tight on the wheel. Pat tries to decide whether or not to turn on the radio. What he really wants is for Jonny to _talk_ to him. He says, “We could just play a couple of rounds of video games.”

 He hears the high, nasal tone his voice takes and thinks, _fuck I’m a whining little shithead._

Jonny says, “We could.” He rubs at his eyes.

When they get to Jonny’s apartment, Pat heats them up some pasta while Jonny unpacks. They eat in front of the television, watching the early morning NHL networks highlights. Usually, Pat likes to talk about what he sees when watching clips, especially with Jonny, because it helps him think it through and remember it. Jonny likes that, too. It’s something they’ve done together often, to decompress.

Tonight they’re quiet except for the clinking of their forks on the ceramic pasta bowls. Pat tries not to think about the game. He tries not to think about anything except the images of the skaters on his screen.

“What do you want to play?” Jonny asks, yawning. He must be tired. Pat’s a little uncertain why he hasn’t tried to kick Pat out or gone to bed.

Pat’s tired, too. Still he says, “What about Mario Kart?”

Jonny nods and walks over to put in the game. Pat watches his pants pull tight across his ass. It’s a nice ass, an ass that Pat has spent a lot of time watching and thinking about. He has often wondered what it would be like to fuck him, to rub his dick between Jonny’s cheeks, then to shove into his tight, hole, wet with lube. He suddenly feels this rushing wave of regret. He’ll probably never find out. At one time, that was a real possibility for him, but he’s gone and fucked it all up.  

When Jonny sits down on the couch, he’s closer to Pat than he was before. The whole apartment smells like Jonny, but, when they’re this close, he can really smell his cologne and his deodorant and his laundry detergent. It’s all the same as always, warm and woody, exciting and calming to Pat at once.

Neither of them play very well. It’s so late and they’re so tired. Pat’s also having difficulty thinking about the game. His mind keeps wandering to Jonny and their future, maybe together, maybe not.

After they’ve finished three races, Pat puts his controller down. He says, “Jonny.”

Jonny turns to look at him, he’s smiling. The circles under his eyes look dangerously dark. His jaw is relaxed, though, and Pat thinks they’ve been having fun playing together, off the ice.  
Pat feels suddenly better than he’s felt in months, which is saying a lot because it’s been an incredible few months for him at work, the best of his career.

Pat can’t help himself. He leans forward and touches his lips to Jonny’s. Jonny gasps and Pat can feel the suck of air against his own mouth. He presses harder, and licks lightly into Jonny.

Jonny gives in, dropping his own controller and moving his hands to the tops of Pat’s thighs. They stay about an inch too low for Pat’s liking , but he’ll take what he can get because _Jonny Jonny Jonny Jonny Jonny._

Jonny takes Pats lips between his teeth and Pat lets out a little moan.

“Fuck,” Jonny says, pulling away.

He leans back against the couch and closes his eyes. He’s still got one hand on Pat’s leg and Pat fights the urge to cover it with his own. 

Jonny opens his eyes and looks at Pat. It’s a hard look, the sharpness of his jaw accentuated by the lamplight. He says, “Pat, I’ve told you. I can’t do this, not like this. I need you to leave.”

Pat’s been waiting for this moment since he’d sat down in Jonny’s car. He’s surprised it’s taken so long. He wishes that it hadn’t come, but now, with Jonny’s face open to him, for the first time in ages, with anger pulsing in the vein on his neck and sadness glassing over his eyes, Pat understands.

He sees, suddenly, that this relationship, it hasn’t been easy for Jonny either. And that’s, honestly, something he’s never considered before. Jonny’s always had it all together. Jonny’s always known exactly what he wants. Jonny’s always seemed completely comfortable with what they’re doing, with who he is.

But, as Jonny stands, stiff and not a little awkward, and walks over to the door to wait for Pat, Pat realizes he’s been so fucking caught up in his own internal struggle that he’s never once thought about Jonny’s struggle.

Pat walks over to Jonny, but he doesn’t put on his shoes. He finds himself overwhelmed with questions.

“Jonny, I didn’t realize,” Pat begins.

Jonny cuts him off, saying, “Pat, I think I’ve made myself really clear.”

Pat frowns and reaches for him. Jonny steps back and Pat lets his arms drop. Grabbing Jonny is not the right course of action here, obviously. Pat breathes in a deep gulp of air and says, “You haven’t, though. I still don’t know, like, how you feel at all about this.” Pat gestures to the space between them.

Jonny’s eyes narrow and his face turns stony and unreadable again. “Then you are way stupider than I thought. Come on, let’s go.”

Jonny opens the door with a jerky, almost violent pull.

Pat’s throat tightens. “So, like, you don’t want…” Jonny closes his eyes again and shakes his head before Pat even finishes his sentence. Pat reaches for his shoes.

The elevator ride is torturous. He just wants to get home and open up the bottle of whiskey he’s got hidden away in the linen closet. He’s been so good about not drinking it. Actually, he’s been thinking about giving it to one of the boys, as a birthday gift or some shit. He’s glad he hasn’t.

As he’s waiting for the cab, he pulls out his phone. He’s got a new voicemail from his parents.  He opens it up to listen. They’re proud of him, they say, even if the point streak is over. _Fuck Colorado_ , he hears from Erica in the background. It makes smile.

The phone announces that he still has one saved message.

From Jonny.

He listens to it, then, in the lobby of Jonny’s apartment. He’s listened to it so many times, but he’s never listened with _Jonny’s_ feelings in mind. Always he’s thought about himself, about his own feelings.

He listens to Jonny’s pauses, his hard breaths and his hesitancy.

He plays the last part again, letting Jonny’s soft, almost mumbled words wash over him, “Mostly, I want you to love me. Because, yeah… because I love you.”

_I want you to love me._

And the thing is, Pat _does_ love him, has always loved him. Loving Jonny’s always been the easiest part of all this for Pat. 

And Jonny doesn’t know.

 _Fuck_. 

A gust of wind whips at his face and he wishes he’d gone with a different coat, maybe something leather. It’s so fucking cold that his fingers can’t make his phone work like he wants.

The cab pulls up. Pat walks over to it and gestures for the cabbie to roll down the window. He says, “Sorry, not gonna need the ride.”

The man rolls his eyes and mutters a cuss under his breath, but Pat’s doesn’t really give a fuck. He makes his way back inside Jonny’s building. The doorman nods to him.

As he calls the elevator, he tries to figure out what he can say to make Jonny understand, to make him know that no matter whatever other shit Pat’s working out, Pat _loves_ him.

Pat pounds his fist against the door of Jonny’s apartment. He hopes that Jonny’s not asleep. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Jonny’s texted him: _what_

Pat pounds some more. He’s not having this conversation over text. “Open up the gooddamn door,” he shouts, not fucking caring about the other fucks in the building.

Jonny texts him: _not doing this again_

Pat pounds harder. “Jonathan Bryan Toews.”

Jonny pulls the door open and peaks out, shoulders blocking the entrance. “What the hell?”

He’s stripped down to his boxers and Pat can smell mint and alcohol from the mouthwash he must’ve just rinsed with. He’s frowning, not with the carefully masked pain from a few minutes earlier, but with an irritated, half-way to break my stick anger.

Pat knows the look. He’s been on the receiving end of this look so many times. Pat _loves_ this look.

“I love you.”

He hadn’t really planned on leading off with that, but maybe it’ll work. He scratches at his jaw. Maybe it can be that easy.

Jonny blinks at him. “You what?”

Okay, not that easy, then. Pat replies, “Let me in.” Jonny does.

Pat turns on several lamps in the living room, but leaves the overhead lights off. Might as well set the mood.

“What’s happening? What are you doing here? I asked you to leave,” Jonny’s voice is hard, too loud in the quiet, mostly dark apartment.

Pat settles on the couch and then pats the leather beside him, meaning for Jonny to sit as well. Jonny does, but he’s still frowning, uglier now, something closer to the hurt look he’d worn earlier.

Pat hates it so much. “I want you to be happy.”

This isn’t something he’d planned to say, either. Actually, it’s not something he’s actively ever thought about before. But it’s true, so he says it again, “I always want you to be happy.”

“I’d be happy if I were asleep right now,” Jonny tells him. He’s sitting very still on the edge of the couch, back straight, several feet away from Pat. He’s looking at his hands which are folded between his legs.

“I think we should do this,” Pat tells him. “For real.”

Jonny drops his head back against the couch, his whole body relaxing. “Do what? Do what, Pat? You can’t even tell me what it is you want to do. We can’t do anything if you won’t even talk about it.”

“I love you,” Pat says again. Because he doesn’t really know what he wants to do _for real_ , but he does know that, whatever it is, he wants to do it with Jonny. Because he loves him. “I’ve loved you since, like, forever.”

“Since forever?” Jonny echoes. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense. You haven’t known me forever.”

Pat doesn’t answer. Jonny’s still looking at his hands and he’s totally missed the point.

After a moment, Jonny says, softly, doubtfully, “You love me?”

Pat stands up because now _he’s_ getting irritated. “That’s what I said. I. Love. You.”

“I love you, too,” Jonny says, finally looking up at him.

Pat nods, “I know you do. Love’s the simple part.”

Jonny winces out a laugh. “It’s not, Pat. It’s not. And if it were, like, why didn’t you ever say? What has all this back and forth been, all this girl dating, if you’ve loved me ‘since forever’?”

His voice sounds small, like fine print at the bottom of a contract.

“A lot of the time, this gay shit feels fucked up,” Pat says.

“That’s not what you said with my dick up your ass.” The retort comes quick and with a cynical little waggle of eyebrows. Then Jonny says, “But you want to do this? Even though God thinks it’s sinful or whatever it is you believe?”

Pat sits down again, and angles his body toward Jonny to say, “I don’t know what God thinks about it. But I know I love you.”

Jonny frowns, and the he nods. “Okay.”

Frown still in place, Jonny reaches out to place his hands on Pat’s shoulders, grip tight, almost painful, and then, he kisses Pat. It’s a gentle kiss, soft and a little wet.  It doesn’t last long.

“Can we…?” Jonny asks, breathily.

Pat nods. It doesn’t matter what wants, really. Pat’d do anything Jonny asked of him right now. _Anything._

Jonny stands. “I’m just so tired. Let’s go to bed.” 

Pat follows him into the bedroom. As he strips off his shirt, he says, “Don’t leave, tonight. I want to wake up with you in the morning.”

Jonny smiles at Pat and he looks reallyfucking happy, especially for someone who’s been awake for over 24 hours. “Me too,” he says. 

A few minutes later, as he’s drifting off, the skin of Jonny’s back warm against his own, he thinks he’s finally, maybe, okay with this.

~

Pat’s cooking chili the next night, when his mom calls. He’s got the salsa out and he’s trying to decide just how much he wants to cater to Jonny’s sensitive tastebuds.

“Hey, Mom,” he says, dropping one tablespoon and then another into the pot. The shit’s only ‘medium’ spicy, so Jonny can suck it up.

“Congratulations,” she says. Jonny’s in the other room, watching game tape from last night, the muffled shouts drifting into the kitchen and reminding Pat of their shitty play.

“We lost, Mom,” he tells her, stirring in a fuckton of chili powder.

“I mean, with Jonny,” she sounds a little exasperated.

Pat rubs at his chin. “What?” He’s not sure what she knows or how the fuck she’s found out. 

“I’m happy for you, Pat. So’s Andrée.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he tells her, even though it is.

“I’ve been praying for you two,” she replies. He feels warm all over, hearing her say it, but, still, he’s just not sure how much stock he’s ready to put in prayer. 

“Thanks, Mom,” he says. In the next room, Jonny turns off the TV. “I’ve got to finish dinner, though. I’m kind of in the middle of it.”

“Pat,” she says. “I love you.”

Pat hears Jonny pull out a stool to sit at the counter, but he keeps his body turned toward the stove. He swallows.

“I love you, too,” he says. And then, “Can you keep praying? For us, I mean?”

“Of course, I will,” she says.

Pat hopes she’ll light a candle for them. Pat has big dreams for him and Jonny, for the Hawks, for their future. And they’re sure as hell going to need all the strength God can send them.

When Pat hangs up the phone, he turns to Jonny. He’s a little embarrassed by the conversation. He’s not sure he could stomach Jonny saying anything hostile about his mom’s faith, or about _his_ faith.

“Dinner smells good,” Jonny tells him, with a happy frown.

Pat smiles and nods. He’s okay. They’re okay.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The plot is driven by Pat's encounters with the Roman Catholic and Evangelical traditions, both of which I have participated in extensively, but neither of which do I currently profess to be a member. By no means do I understand the portrayal of these traditions in this fic to be universal. I know that lots of people in both traditions understand their faith and practice it differently than these characters. 
> 
> I have tried to be generous to Christianity and to the Church (because, to be plain, I am Christian and I love the institutional church like it’s my dear, racist, sexist, homophobic grandmother who I am desperately and perhaps quite futilely trying to change), but even here at the end Jonny is still agnostic and Pat is still searching for a way to integrate his belief in and understanding of God with the world as he experiences it. 
> 
> I feel a great deal of frustration at leaving this epic exploration of Pat's faith unresolved, but it resonates with my firm belief that the nature of faith (or, said differently, the nature of our search for existential meaning) is such that our implicit understandings aren't ever constant or completely coherent, even if we consciously affirm them to be so.


End file.
